Unfold Me
by Arlennee
Summary: Lana has never had it easy. The only two stable things in her life are her best friends, Stiles and Scott, and even then she has troubles. She's been in love with Stiles since childhood and he doesn't know, too enthralled by Lydia Martin. She's lost. Then she meets Derek Hale, consequently becoming even more lost. Derek & OC & Stiles. Love triangle. Follows story line of the show.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One  
Lana's Point of View

I shut the front door behind me as softly as possible. My teeth clench when the lock clicks in place, and I glance around anxiously, anticipation of him coming around the corner churning in the pit of my stomach. A few moments of me frozen, listening to any little noise in the tense silence of my house, and I'm relieved when there's nothing to hear. Releasing a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I walk towards the stairs.

"Lana."

Once again, my body freezes, and I curse to myself. _Fuck._ Reluctantly, I turn around to find my dad now standing at the end of the hallway, his arms crossed across his chest and anger evidently controlling his expression. The anticipation that was once fueling my actions is washed away and replaced with the kind of knowing fear I've felt so many times before. "Dad, look. I was just—,"

"What? Just what?" he asks, and advances toward me. "With those two idiot friends of yours? It's eleven o'clock, way past your curfew. What is so important that you would stay out past curfew?"

Averting my eyes to the floor, I quietly say, "I was helping Scott practice for lacrosse tryouts tomorrow. Becoming first line means a lot to him."

He laughs without humor. "I've been to your school's lacrosse games. Scott's always on the bench, along with his pathetic side-kick Stiles. Don't you think it's rather cruel to be encouraging him when you know he's going to suck just as much as he did last year?"

"Don't talk about them like that!" I snap, and regret it immediately.

His already enraged face twists infuriately, and before I can blink, his hand is around my neck and I'm thrown into the closet door. Pain shoots through my hip where I land and black splotches appear in my vision when his foot connects with my head. A tear rolls down my cheek as the awful pain continues. But I don't make a sound. I've learned to stay as silent as I can during times like this. Yelling, crying, screaming, or even whimpering will just string him on. The sound of my agony pleases him. And I won't give him any pleasure.

When the opportunity becomes apparent, I withstand the pain of getting to my feet and bolt out the door. Fortunately, he doesn't care enough to run after me. He knows he'll have plenty of other times to finish what he started.

I run for a while. I don't know how long, could have been hours, until finally my legs can't carry me any longer. My knees buckle and I collapse to the ground. My face feels strangely hot, despite the freezing weather, and fresh tears join the dry ones on my cheeks. Shallow, hysterical breaths of air hyperventilate from my chapped and swollen lips, and I hug my legs to my body, rocking back and forth.

It only takes me a few moments to calm down enough to observe my surroundings. My eyes dart around as I struggle to stand; my legs are still weak and trembling. I'm in the forest behind my house, that's easy to figure out, but where in that forest is the secret. My whole life I've lived in Beacon Hills, in the same house, with this exact same forest as my backyard. But I've never had the guts to venture that far in, and that must be why what's in front of me is completely new to my eyes.

The house in front of me is ginormous. There are three stories, with at least three windows on each one. Seemingly, it would be easy to call it beautiful, if it weren't almost completely in ruins. Everything is a distasteful brown, colored the same as aged ash, and it occurs to me that this must be the Hale house that burnt down a few years ago. Broken wood and unrecognizable parts of what was once nice detail to a gorgeous home hang loosely from the panels and windows. Weeds are growing all around it, indicating that this devastated home has been abdomen for a while now. When I take a few steps to the side, my eyes widen. Practically the entire back of the house is missing. Gone. The whole scene is horribly heartbreaking.

Like usual, my curiosity gets the better of me. I start toward the house, wrapping my arms around my body as the chill wind brushes against my naked arms. My shoes crunch the leaves on the ground obnoxiously; the forest is so quiet that the mere sound is like gun shots. Every time I make any sort of sound, no matter how tiny it is, I instinctively glance around. I'm so high on adrenaline that I'm consequently paranoid about who might be out in these woods. What they might be doing. And if I can't see them, it's very possible that they can still see me.

Tentatively, I push on the front door; it groans as it opens wide. As I cautiously walk in, my eyes roam around, slowly. Directly in front me is a staircase that leads up to the second story, where all I'm able to see from here are two windows with red curtains which are ripped and torn. The railings are held up by wooden pegs, some of those pegs being only half there or gone entirely. Paint or wallpaper is chipping off the walls—well, whatever paint or wallpaper is left—and dirt and grime is smudged right along with it. Moonlight dips into the dark, ominous room, lending me the only source of light, of which I'm greatly thankful for at the moment.

The room I enter next is much worse. Broken tables, scattered paper on the floor with other items I can't make out, a random, dirty chair here and there, wooden panels from the ceiling hanging down, and a fire place that looks like it hasn't been used in decades. An eerie feeling continuously crawling under my skin, I step over to one of the tables, where, looking very out of place, a framed picture is standing upright on top. I take it into my hands, my eyebrows scrunching together as I study it. It's of a girl and a guy. They're both very attractive people, with smiles as bright as the sun as they pose in front of a tree. They look so happy. It feels quite ironic that such an uplifting photo would be in this house.

"What are you doing?"

I jump, a startled gasp flying past my lips, and whirl around. Only a few feet away from me is a guy, probably around the age of nineteen or twenty, with a scowl plaguing his… _gorgeous_ face. The attractiveness of this man in front of me is unbelievable—with dark scruff decorating his incredibly defined jawline, with dark, brown hair, almost to the point of black, looking sexily ruffled. Every facial feature on him is stunning, and when my eyes dart down to the rest of him, I'm almost tempted to rub my eyes and see if the perfect man in front of me is actually real. Even under his long-sleeved shirt and dark washed jeans, I can make out the amazing muscles all around his body. My gaze diverts on his face again, and it instantly locks with his, and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes cause my stomach to drop and coil. They're exceedingly beautiful, a light green color, maybe even blue some might say, and they hold so much turmoil in them that my heart squeezes in sympathy.

I become very aware that he's glaring at me with a look so hostile that I almost forget how hot he is. Almost. "Oh, I-I'm really sorry. I didn't know anyone lived here," I blabber, and I flinch because my voice is still crackly from my previous sob-session. Then I remember how awful I must look right now; tear-stained cheeks, mascara running, jeans covered in mud, hair probably symbolizing a rat's nest.

Great. The one time I'm in the presence of the hottest guy I've ever seen, I look like I just got ran over by a bus. Like my track-record isn't already bad enough. I suddenly have the urge to cry again, and I want to slap myself because of it. Damn emotions.

He stays silent, with no longer an angry look on his face, but an unreadable one as he mercilessly stares me down. I don't know if that's any better. "Look," I begin, "I'll just leave. Maybe we can just forget this ever happened—"

"You do know this is trespassing, right?" he interrupts, and shivers go up my spine from his voice. He walks toward me. "What are you, fifteen? Isn't this way past your bed time?"

All embarrassment vanishes, and I frown, irritation bubbling inside of me. "I'm sixteen, _actually. _And you don't have to be so rude."

He ignores me. "I'm so tired of reckless teenagers like you stumbling around in the woods because they think they're so invincible and that nothing is going to happen to them. All they want to do is impress their stupid friends by going into the woods during the night all alone. Or are you just having an emotional breakdown. Why aren't you home, huh? Boyfriend drama?"

His words hurt. A lot. I don't even know this guy and he's already hurt me. "You know what I'm tired of?" I say, my tone bitter. I try to sound strong and unfazed, but the somberness in my voice is far too blatant. "I'm tired of everyone being so relentlessly cruel to people who haven't done anything to deserve it."

Shoving past him, I hurry towards the door, but I'm stopped by him grabbing my arm. I look up to see that his expression has changed. He doesn't look angry or blank or upset. No, he looks anything but. The look he's giving me is so intense that it's impossible for me to look away. Not even one second goes by before he's clutching my face and crushing his lips onto mine.

The utter shock from him unexpectedly kissing me doesn't last as long as it should. But then again, I _should _have pulled away from him by now; however something kept me from doing so. An incredible sensation that racked through my body the second his lips connected with mine. My body felt like it was on fire, my mind went completely blank, and the only thing I'm capable of paying attention to being Derek Hale, the mysterious and strikingly enthralling stranger that I know absolutely nothing about.

He roughly pushes me up against the wall, meanwhile lifting my legs and hooking them around his waist. My hands fly up to his head and my fingers tangle in his hair while his pleasantly warm hands grip my hips. As if my body has been possessed by a completely different girl, who actually knows what she's doing, I erotically bite his bottom lip and he lets out an animalistic groan before relocating his kisses to my neck. Leaning my head back, my eyes slip closed, and my breathing gradually becomes even more heavy, right along with his.

Suddenly, his mouth is off my neck—to my disappointment—and he's taking my chin and forcing my face down so I'm staring him straight in the eyes. "What's your name?" he asks. His voice is just as eager and intense as his eyes.

"Lana," I breathe.

"Lana," he repeats quietly, and the corners of his mouth twitch into a slight smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lana. I'm—"

"Derek," I finish for him. "Derek Hale." I grab his face and press his lips back onto mine before he can respond.

* * *

**This first chapter I deliberately made short because I want to know if anyone is interested before writing a full-length chapter. So, please, review! I hope you enjoyed.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the reviews and favorites guys! Means a bunch. I know some of you were kind of suspicious about Lana and Derek kissing when they just met. I hope this chapter clears up a little of that suspicion. If not, as the story goes on, everything will make sense, I promise. **

Chapter Two  
Lana's P.O.V

My eyelids slowly flutter open. Sunlight pools into the room, and I sit up in bed, raising my arms above my head in a long stretch before bringing them down to rub my still sleep-sticky eyes. Still feeling rather drowsy, I curl up on my side to lie down for a couple more minutes, my eyes slipping closed again. When I go to reach my arm out across the bed, I'm stopped by something hard and very warm. Confused, I open my eyes.

And Derek Hale is laying there, the blankets only covering below his belly button; his entire naked chest is showing.

I don't think I could have jumped out of that bed fast enough.

Abruptly, and very overwhelmingly, the events from last coming rushing back to me. My dad's usual anger, me racing hysterically through the forest, arriving at the ruined Hale home, getting caught exploring by Derek, his harsh words, his sudden kisses, his hands roaming all over my body, his shallow and hot breath against my neck, the sound of ruffling sheets, the feeling of his bare skin against mine…

My chest feels like its bearing the weight of one hundred tons. I run my fingers through my hair. I'm met with several tangles, causing the imagine of Derek's own hands tugging and stroking my hair to flash before my mind, and I hastily drop my arm back to my side, sucking in a deep, trembling breath. The memories continue. In an attempt to stall them, I avert my eyes away from the man asleep in my bed. It doesn't work, especially when his raspy, hypnotizing voice floats throughout the room.

"Well, good morning." I hesitantly look over to find him grinning at me, his arms spread out behind his head. "I mean, last night would have been good enough, but if you want go ahead and give me a morning show, feel free."

I give him a puzzled look until I realize what he means. Gasping, I look down at myself.

I'm fucking naked! And he's staring right at me!

Horrified, I grab one of the blankets and hurriedly wrap it around myself, my neck and cheeks warming up. He frowns and says, "Aw, why'd you have to go and do that?"

"Shut up!" I snap, suddenly feeling on the urge of a major freak out. "God, how can you be acting so casual right now?"

"Why wouldn't I be able to?" he asks, seeming genuinely caught off guard by how I'm acting.

"We… You and I… H-Had…"

"Sex?" he finishes for me, smirking. "Uh, yeah, I know. I was there."

"Oh my god," I groan, and plop down on the edge of the bed. Shaking my head back and forth, I press my hands to my face. "We, uh, we were safe, right?"

I hear him chuckle, and then he's sitting beside me, thankfully with boxers on. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Actually, no. I don't know." I look over at him. "I don't know you at all, Derek. I met you last night, _last night_, and we had _sex_. Does that not bother you at all?"

His amused, carefree expression slips into a solemn one. This makes me feel better, after all I'd rather him be serious right now than joking. "Do you regret what happened?" The way he asks it makes me think that, if I were to regret it, which I'm not sure at this point how I feel, that it would sincerely upset him. Something inside of me is flattered by that.

Sighing, I hang my head. Then something clicks in my brain, and I hop up from the bed. "Where are my clothes?" I demand.

He raises his eyebrows. "On the floor over there," he answers, pointing over to his side of the bed.

While clutching the blanket to me, I shuffle as fast as possible over to my pile of cloths and drop to my knees. After digging around for a second, I find my phone in my jeans pocket. The clock at the top of the screen reads seven fifty. "Crap!" I yell. "School starts in ten freaking minutes!"

"School?"

"Yes, school! Today is the first day back!" No longer caring if he sees me naked (he has already, so what's the point in trying to cover myself anymore), I frantically throw on my clothes from last night. Derek's now standing, itching the top of his head and yawning as he watches me. "Where's your restroom?" I ask.

Pursing his lips, he leads me out of his bedroom and into the hall. He motions to a door, and once I run over to it, I spin around to face him, my arms out. "You don't have a mirror?"

"Does it look like this place has a mirror?" he says. "You're lucky I still have a working toilet."

"But it's the first of school. I can't just waltz in their looking like I just got swallowed by a leaf blower," I complain in despair, and my hands fly up to feel my hair. "Oh, my hair probably looks awful!"

He's smiling at me and that bugs me. Is this really the time to be smiling? "You look beautiful, Lana."

His blunt and very unexpectedly kind statement awakes a herd of butterflies in my stomach. For a second, as he and I stand there gazing at each other, I almost forget about being late to school on the first day. But then I remember who I'm with right now, and what had happened merely hours ago. "I need to go," I murmur, and quickly descend the stairs and start toward the door.

"Lana, wait!" he calls. I stop, but don't turn around. "I can give you a ride. It's… It's not safe to be wandering around in these woods. "

That sparks interest in me. Nothing ever happens in Beacon hills. The most exciting thing that ever occurs is Lydia Martin's annual birthday parties, in which I'm never invited to, considering she's always had a certain dislike for me for no apparent reason. There aren't even any dangerous animals around here, really. I would expect for him to be kidding, but there is not one hint of any amusement in his tone. He's serious, and handing out quite a tempting offer.

A part of me, the impulsive, fun part as Stiles refers to it as, wants to get a ride from Derek. But the sensible, reserved part of me knows that getting away from him ASAP is what's imperative right now, along with getting to school soon. It's hard to pick between the two, honestly, but the ultimate tie breaker is that I'm pretty sure the "fun" part of me is what lead me to losing my virginity to a complete stranger last night. An extremely hot stranger, yes, but still a stranger.

So, without a word, I slap some duct tape on the fun Lana's mouth and rush out of the door.

* * *

Like expected, I got to school safe, despite Derek's warning, but I sure as hell did not get to school on time.

On the way here, I had dipped into my house—quietly, especially careful not to wake up my dad—to change my clothes and grab my bag. Sadly, there wasn't enough time to fix myself hardly at all, so I resorted to putting my hair in a bun, not bother with any makeup, and wear my glasses rather than struggle with my annoying contacts. I'm not trying to impress anybody anyway.

Well, there's Stiles, but putting on makeup and doing my hair has never made him like me before, so why would today be any different?

Stiles Stilinski and I befriended each other in second grade. It was during recess, and I was being picked on by Jackson Whittemore (not much has changed). Stiles came to my rescue, saying stuff like "why don't you go pick on someone your own size!" It was quite brave of him considering the fact that Jackson tied him to the tetherball pole while he and his friends gave him several weggies and in consequence he's been targeting Stiles ever since. But he didn't regret it. He was happy that he saved me from being bullied; he told me the next day on the playground, a goofy, tooth-gapped grin spread across his face. It was the sweetest thing ever.

And now not a day has gone by without me being hopelessly in love with him.

Scott joined up with us in sixth grade, equally as dorky, and we've been inseparable ever since. Scott is actually the only one who knows about my feelings for Stiles, and he's even plotted plans to try and get him and me together, or at least get him to understand how I feel. But all that ended in junior high, when I gave up on all hope, that my love for that boy will always be unrequired, that he'll forever be about perfect, little Lydia Martin and never about me.

Fortunately, Scott is there for me, like the brother I never had. Our friendship sometimes feels like the only thing keeping me sane in my frequently fucked up world.

I fish around in my bag for my Schedule as I walk into the school, where all of the halls are basically empty, indicating that first period has started. On the top of the paper is my first class, English in room 170. Not bothering to check in in the office, I break out in a sprint toward the English hallway.

The English teacher, whose name I don't know and don't care to find out, is in the middle of speaking when I burst into the classroom. All eyes go straight to me, including Scott's and Stiles, who look at me with inquisitive yet amused expressions. I deliberately ignore them and instead force on my best, kiss-up smile. "Hey, Mister…" I trail off, hoping he'll provide his name for me.

"Banks," the teacher says with a very unwelcoming and grim frown on his face as he regards me. "And you must be…" He glances down at a paper on his desk, presumably the attendance sheet. "Lana Staffeld, the only one with an unexcused absence."

"That'd be me!"

His frown deepens. "Take a seat, Miss Staffeld, and hope that I won't let this unpleasant meeting between the two of us dictate how I feel about you."

_Let's hope. _

I stalk over to the empty seat in front of Stiles and across from Scott and slide into it, releasing a much needed breath of air. I twist in my seat and salute Stiles, something he and I have adapted to doing quite often as a greeting, and he does so too, smirking. When I straighten out in my seat, Scott leans over.

"You look like shit," he whispers.

I give him a smart-ass look. "And you look like a fairy princess."

"What?"

"Just shut up."

He shrugs and fixes his gaze forward again. Instead of listening to the teacher drag on, I resort to doodling, because, yes, it's the first day of school and I'm already making wrong decisions. But hey, that can't even compare to the wrong decision I made last night.

While doodling, my mind drifts off to another place, involuntarily to a place where I think about Derek. It feels so unlike me to do something like that, have a one night stand sort of thing; every time I hear about people having sex with anyone who isn't their significant other I judge them instantly. But last night, something changed inside of me when he kissed me. It was like I was put in a trance where the entire world was missing and it was only Derek and I. My mind refused to rationalize anything; I was too involved in how happy I suddenly felt after being so sad. And it was all because of Derek Hale.

Now, I feel like absolute shit, all of the previous wondering feelings gone. It would have been nice if I could at least hate on myself while still feeling as joyful as I did last night.

I look up, as does everyone else, when the principle and a girl walk in. The girl, who is exceedingly pretty, having long, brunette hair falling in natural ringlets around her face, porcelain skin, and the height and body of a model, is timidly smiling, avoiding many curious stares.

"Class," the principle begins, "this is our new student, Allison Argent. Please do your best to make her feel welcome."

He leaves, and Alison makes her way over to sit in the seat behind Scott. This is when I notice how he's staring at her, with a look of total admiration as he watches her every move. A look I've never seen Scott have for anyone since I met him. Just as she sits, he turns around and offers her a pen wordlessly. For a second, she looks at him in confusion before smiling and taking the pen.

"Thanks," she says.

I give Scott a weird look, in which he just shrugs, staring forward with a stupid smile plastered on his face as Mr. Banks goes on to talk.

When first period is over, Stiles and I walk to our lockers, which are right next to each other's. While I dump out the over-sized English text book Mr. Banks so kindly gave us to lug around, I shut my locker and lean against it.

"Why were you so late today?" Stiles asks, still messing around with his combination.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Stiles and I tell each other practically everything (other than my feelings for him, of course) but I've never had something like what happened with Derek and me to tell. I have no idea how he'd react. Would he be disappointed in me? Mad? Disgusted? Anything like that is awful to think about him feeling towards something I did.

So, I lie, even though I want more than anything for someone to talk to. "My dad and I got in another fight last night, so I accidently slept in because I was super tired."

He stops fighting with his locker for a moment to send me a worried glance. "What happened?"

"Just some yelling, a few accusations. Nothing new."

Oh yeah. Another secret. But then again, not even Scott knows about my abusive relationship with my father. No one does, and if I have any say in it, it will stay that way.

"You know, I can talk to him for you if you want," he says, and starts to crack his knuckles. "Maybe rough him up a little bit."

I snort. "Yeah, because he'd be so scared of you, wouldn't he be?"

"Of course. I'm petrifying."

Stiles finally gets his locker open and once he's finished, we walk over to Scott's. Once we get there, Scott isn't even looking inside his locker; he's too busy ogling the new girl, Allison, who is currently talking to Lydia and Jackson across the hall. I slap him over the head to get his attention.

"Uh, ow!" he whines, rubbing the spot where I hit him. "What was that for?"

"To get you to quit drooling over the new girl like a perv," I say. "She's only been here for like five minutes and Lydia already has her caught in her evil, professionally manicured clutches. Before you know it, she'll be just as bad as Lydia. Do you really want that?"

He sighs. "No, there's something different about her. I don't think Lydia will be able to have an effect on her."

"Yeah, and what's so wrong with being like Lydia?" Stiles butts in. "She's the most perfect human being on this earth."

Like any time Stiles adores over Lydia around me, there's a distinct stab of pain filled jealousy that fails to ever leave me alone. Scott discreetly gives me a knowing look, and I just shake my head and say, "You might want to reevaluate your definition of perfect, Stiles."

* * *

After school, Scott and Stiles, like I anticipated, drag me to lacrosse practice. I never object to going because watching lacrosse is actually very entertaining. Today, I'm even more willing; it's the kind of distraction I need.

Leaving Stiles and Scott to do their thing, I decide to go introduce myself to Allison, who is sitting on the benches with Lydia.

"Hi," I say once I approach, and hold out my hand to Allison. "I'm Lana."

Smiling, she shakes my hand. "Allison. You're in my English class, right?" she says.

"With that academic disaster, Mr. Banks? Unfortunately."

She laughs, and then pats the space next to her. "Sit with us."

"Sure."

Once I sit, I lean over Allison to flash Lydia a grin, the kind of I-know-you-hate-that-I'm-here-and-I-don't-care grin. "What's up, Lydia?"

She curls her freshly glossed lips at me and flips her hair. "Staffeld," she greets condescendingly while looking at the field.

Rolling my eyes, I straighten back up. Allison looks at both of us before raising her eyebrows at me. Lydia and I make it very obvious that we both dislike each other, so I'm sure Allison has now caught on. Thankfully, she doesn't say anything, considering I really wouldn't want to hear Lydia's potentially bitchy response.

The three of us fall silent and pay attention to the field. Scott, to my surprise, is in the goalie position, while he usually would be on the bench with Stiles. The first player steps up and chucks the ball toward the net. Scott doesn't notice and it hits him square in the head. The other plays, and Coach Finstock, burst into laughter as Scott gets to his feet again. I begin biting my nails. I hate watching him be humiliated.

Second player up, Scott is now focused. "Come on, Scott," I mumble to myself. "You can do it. We practiced this." From the corner of my eye, I see Allison glance over at me.

The player throws the ball, and I perk up when it lands in Scott's stick. Everyone, even Scott, looks surprised. And when the third player in line is up, Scott catches it again, and the crowd begins clapping. It happens again. And again. And again. He catches it every single time.

"Woo!" I cheer, grinning.

"He seems like he's pretty good," Allison says with a small smile on her face.

"Uh, very good," Lydia agrees.

After a few more times, Jackson steps up, the captain of the whole time, also known as the biggest douchebag of the century. He runs toward the net, and with a very skilled throw, the ball goes flying. But it doesn't matter, because Scott catches it just as effortlessly as before.

I shoot up to my feet just as Stiles does on the bench and both of us cheer along with the crowd. Once I sit down, Allison looks at me. "Do you know him?" she asks.

"Yeah." I smile. "He's my best friend. Why?"

She just shakes her head slowly, the corners of her mouth rising. "No reason."

* * *

"I-I don't know what it was," Scott says as we cross over a stream in the forest. "It was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball."

The three of us are searching in the woods for Scott's inhaler, which apparently he and Stiles lost last night when they idiotically decided to go search for the other half of the dead body that was reported this morning. When they asked me to come along, I almost didn't want to. The woods reminds me too much of last night. But I pushed my worries aside and joined them. I'd rather be out than go home, anyway.

"And that's not the only weird thing," Scott goes on. "I hear stuff I shouldn't be able to hear, smell things."

"Smell things?" Stiles repeats. "Like what?"

"Like…" He looks over at me. "Like the mint gum in Lana's pocket."

I frown. "I don't even have any mint…" I trail off when I reach into my pockets and pull out, in fact, a piece of mint gum I don't even remember putting in there. We all share a look, before I shove it back into my jacket. "How'd you do that?"

Scott shrugs as we continue walking.

"So all this started with the bite," Stiles says.

"Maybe it's like an infection. Like my body's flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something."

Confusion rings through me. "Wait a second." I grab both of their arms so they stop walking forward. "What bite?" I demand.

Scott presses his lips into a thin line. "I haven't told you?"

"Uh, told me what?"

Stiles and he exchange a quick glance, and then Scott lifts his shirt up to reveal and big, gauzed bandage on his side, some blood showing in the middle. My eyes bulge out of my head and I hurry over to him. "Scott!" I cry, my hands hovering uncertainly around the injury. "What the hell happened to you?"

He pulls his shirt back down. "Last night, after Stiles was taken home by his dad, I was walking through the woods when… when I was bitten."

"_Bitten_?" Panic starts to build inside of me. "Bitten by what?"

"He thinks a wolf," Stiles says. "But, like I told him, wolves haven't been in Beacon Hills for, like, sixty years."

Scott glares at him. "I swear it was a wolf. I'm not delusional, Stiles."

"Hey, maybe being delusional could be another weird side-effect."

"I saw the wolf before I was bitten. I can't have side-effects before it even happened!"

"Are you all right?" I interrupt their squabbling worriedly, frowning up at Scott. "Maybe you should get it checked out."

He waves his hand dismissively. "No, no, it's not that serious. I cleaned it out pretty good last night." He smiles down at me, almost like in amusement. "Don't act so motherly, Lana."

Continuing forward, I shrug. "I can't help it. Someone needs to be the one who cares. Obviously Stiles isn't, so that leaves me."

Stiles scoffs. "I care!"

Scott hangs his arm around my shoulders. "Yeah, but not all motherly-like like Lana."

"And that's what I'm here for," I say, patting his side.

We walk for a few more minutes, Stiles all the while cracking jokes about Scott now being a werewolf and me slapping him every time he deliberately freaks Scott out for no reason. Finally, Scott stops us when we get to the spot he believes is where he dropped his inhaler and saw the body. However there's nothing around, not his inhaler or the body, much to my disappointment. Seeing a dead body would be something exciting.

"I could have sworn this was it," Scott says, crouching down to riffle through the leaves. "I saw the body. The deer came running. I dropped my inhaler."

"Maybe the killer moved the body," Stiles says.

"Or the police," I add, getting down to help him search.

"If they did, I hope they left my inhaler. Those things are like eighty bucks," Scott says, while continuing to pointlessly look for it on the ground.

Suddenly, Stiles frantically hits our shoulders and motions behind us. Scott and I stand. When we turn around to where Stiles gestured, my stomach drops.

It's Derek.

He's not looking at me, though; his steely expression is directed toward Stiles and Scott, who are shifting on their feet nervously. I feel the urge to back up when Derek starts toward us.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, and my stomach flutters from his voice. Scott and Stiles stay silent. "Huh? This is private property."

"Uh, sorry, man. We didn't know," Stiles says.

Scott adds, staring at Derek with a certain look I can't understand," Yeah, we were just looking for something. But forget it."

Unexpectedly, Derek reaches into his pocket and throws something at Scott, who swiftly catches it. He opens his hand. It's his inhaler. Derek removes his indignant glare away from them and then his gaze lands on me, causing my heart to leap. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, his expression completely blank, before he turns on his heels and stalks off.

I gulp and wrap my arms around myself, looking over at Scott and Stiles. They noticed the look Derek and I exchanged, I can tell, because they're eying me in confusion. "Have you met him before?" Stiles asks with an edge to his voice; his glower is grim.

"No." I glance over to where Derek was once standing. "No, I haven't."

Derek's P.O.V

Lana.

I can't get her out of my head.

Throughout my life, I've had a fair share of girlfriends, some lasting a couple months and even maybe a year. But they never meant much to me. Other than my family, I've never had any sentimental connection to anyone, and I've been perfectly fine with that.

But then she was there. Lana. Stumbling around in my house with dry tears and wet, puffy eyes that shone sad yet curious at the same time. Beautiful blonde locks framed her small, oval face. Everything about her was so tiny, so fragile, and yet she gave off an aura of unmistakable durability, integrity. She was gorgeous. No, beyond. She was _breathtaking. _

Initially, I was irritated. Dealing with trying to find the Alpha, having to listen to the rumors and ignorant notions the townspeople have been saying about my dead sister; it's turned me even bitterer than before. So I snapped at her, and I expected her to shrink away in fear, to continue crying like I figured she was just moments ago. She didn't. She stood up to me. And when she did, I looked at her. I mean, _really _looked at her, and all fury, at that moment, vanished.

I didn't know what it was. I still don't, for that matter. But for the first time since my family died, I didn't feel even the least bit angry.

What brought me to kissing her was something inside of me, yearning to touch her, needing to feel her. My mind wasn't functioning; my body had taken over.

Now, as I sit on the frail porch of my crumbling house, I can't help but wish I had held back rather than practically throwing myself at her. Maybe if I would have talked to her, gotten to know her before ever going that far, she'd be here with me right now and not regretting what happened between us.

Brooding over one girl isn't something I do. I'm supposed to not care about that kind of shit. That's not Derek Hale. But while I should be worrying about the Alpha, and the idiot of a kid he just turned last night, I'm sitting here with my thoughts completely infested by Lana, someone I hardly know but feel like I've known for years. It's aggravating not knowing why in the world this one girl is able to make me feel this way without any effort at all, but the majority of me doesn't truly care.

I like her. Undeniably so. And having a crush is so unbelievably ordinary that it feels absolutely wonderful. Some normality is exactly what I need in my life.

My eyes snap forward when I hear something approaching. I get to my feet, instinctively on guard for whatever may be in store, but when she emerges from the threes, my usual alertness deflates.

"Lana?" I say, surprise coating my voice.

She smiles a smile that seems insincere, and the way she tugs on the bottom of her coat and avoids my gaze, and the fact that her heartbeat is abnormally jumpy, tells me that she's nervous. "Can we talk?" she asks. For a moment, I don't respond, still in a state of minor shock because her much unanticipated presence. She lifts an eyebrow at me and crosses her arms across her chest, bouncing slightly on one foot; she's evidently impatient with my unresponsive attitude. "Uh, Derek?"

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, of course." I grin and wave her inside. Averting her gaze to anywhere but me, she stalks into the house. While her back is turned, I silently curse to myself. _Good job, Derek. Act like a complete fool right in front of her. Like you haven't already screwed up enough._

I shut the door behind me and turn to find her standing awkwardly in the middle of the foyer. She's biting her nails as she shifts her weight from one foot to another, and I remember how she started biting her nails the other morning while she was worrying about getting to school late or not. Must be a habit. A habit she looks incredibly cute while doing, I can't help but notice.

"I mean," she mumbles. "Do you mind if I, uh, sit on the stairs?"

"No, it doesn't matter. There's not much else to sit on."

She nods and proceeds to sit, laying her hands on her knees where they continue to fiddle. Cautiously, I sit next to her, giving enough space between us so she doesn't flip out. "So, what do you want to talk about?" I ask, and look at her.

Silence follows, which is ironic, considering she just moments ago asked if we could talk and now she's doing the exact opposite. One of her knees is bouncing up and down quickly and she's staring forward, almost in a trance-like gaze, at nothing in particular. Hesitantly, I tap her leg and she whips her head in my direction, seemingly startled. "Wh-what?"

I purse my lips. "You wanted to talk?" I remind her.

"Oh…" She sighs. "Sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind right now." Again, she sighs, but this time it's more of an exasperated huff. "Okay. I know this is going to sound really crazy and really blunt but… Ever since that night… the, uh, night we spent together—I haven't been able to stop… well… thinking about it. You, to be precise. And it's so stupid because, for god's sake, I don't know you! But no matter how many times I try to forget about it..." She looks over at me. "I can't."

I can't hold back the grin that's more powerful than I am at the moment. Shit, I'm really not used to smiling this much. Or at all, honestly. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." She notices me grin and a look of despair flashes across her expression. "Oh, god, you are finding this amusing, aren't you?" Swiftly, she jumps to her feet. "Damn, I knew I shouldn't have come here."

Before she can walk out of the door, I bolt in front of her, blocking her way to the entrance. With a startled gasp, she slams into my chest and loses her balance. I catch her before she falls, my hands gently holding her upper arms. Slowly, she raises her head to look me in the eyes. "I can't stop thinking about you either," I murmur, and softly but tentatively press my lips to hers. Then she moves her head away, and I instantaneously feel like a complete dumbass.

She must have seen the humiliation on my face, because, with a laugh—finally sounding relaxed—she says, "If we're going to try this, I want to get to know you first before we do stuff like kissing. Call me prude if you want, I don't care. I just feel like kissing you would be a lot better if I actually _knew_ the person I was kissing."

Again, I smile. She's been making me smile more than I have in months. "And do you have anything in mind?" I ask.

"Honestly, I do. Would you go to a party with me?"

My eyebrows rise. "What party?"

"Lydia Martin's. I'm not necessarily invite per say, because she hates me. But I've never let that stop me before." She shrugs, smirking. "So, what do you say? Want to go?"

That certain thing inside of me latches onto the idea of spending time with her, and with the look she's giving me, I don't think I could have said no even if I wanted to. "I'd love to."

"Cool." Her phone vibrates in her pocket. After she reads whatever is written on the screen, she rolls her eyes and shoves it back into her jacket. "I gotta go. My friend Scott has his first game today for lacrosse, and I'm pretty sure he'd rip my head off if I missed it."

My face falls at the mention of Scott, because I know exactly who she means. "Scott? Scott McCall?" I ask, my voice hard.

"Yeah. Why?" She gives me an inquisitive look. "Do you know him?"

_Not yet._ "Are you close with him?"

"Defiantly. He's my best friend." A pause. "Why are you asking so many questions about Scott?" Instead of smiling like she was a second ago, she's now eying me in skepticism. Considering my bitter tone about him, she probably is growing defensive as I ask suspicious questions about her close friend. Obviously, she's protective.

I let it go, not wanting to upset her when I just got her to go out with me. "No reason. I just saw you in the woods with him and was wondering."

She looks at me for a long second and I have feeling she isn't totally convinced. Fortunately, though, she doesn't go on about it and instead takes out a pen and a piece of paper from her bag. After scribbling something on it, she puts it in my hands and folds my fingers over it. "Pick me up around seven tomorrow night?"

Grinning, I say smoothly, "Can't wait."

Once she's gone, I open up the small piece of paper. On it is two things: her address and her phone number. Suddenly, the smile slips from my face when I realize something. Tomorrow's the party.

And tomorrow's also the full moon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Big thanks to everyone who has liked this story so far! Please review, it keeps more motivated.**

Chapter Three  
Lana's P.O.V

"Stiles?" I call out as I let myself into his house.

Shortly after I got out of the shower earlier, he'd texted me telling me to come over, promising it was important. At first, I was reluctant; Derek's picking me up for the party in an hour and half, and I'm determined to look superhot—which, I believe, will only be accomplished if I use most of that period of time to get ready. But I sucked it up. I knew whatever he needed to talk to me about was urgent; more so than my date, even with Derek being the sexiest, slickest man in leather to ever walk through this town and happens to actually show interest in me rather than pretentious Lydia Martin (cough, cough. I'm talking about you, Stiles). This date may be one of my top priorities, however whenever one of my boys need me, everything else in my life has to be put on a pause.

His house is quiet, which is strange since Stiles is usually _never _quiet, and when he doesn't respond to my second call, I dubiously ascend the stairs. As I round the corner, I can faintly hear hasty typing on a keyboard sounding from his bedroom. I don't bother knocking and open the door to find him sitting in his backwards computer chair, immersed in the writing that's on his computer screen. Books and papers are scattered everywhere—on the floor, on his desk, in his lap. Considering the excitedly stimulated and sleep-deprived glint in his eyes, I have a feeling I'm in store for something unexpected.

He looks over at me when I close the door behind me. "Oh, good you're finally here," he says in relief and frantically waves me over. "Come here; you've got to see this."

Skeptical, I go over to him, sending him concerned glances after noticing the heavy bags under his eyes. "Stiles," I begin, "how long have you been up?"

"All night," he replies quickly before jabbing his finger at the screen. "Read this! Read the first few sentences."

_A werewolf, also known as a lycanthrope, is presented with the disease by hereditary or being bitten by another. Once turned, the werewolf will be instantaneously stronger. In addition, they'll have extensively better senses, be impossibly fast, and will experience drastic ups and downs in moods._

"Stiles." I cross my arms over my chest. "You better not have called me over here just to make me read some weird, supernatural werewolf mumbo-jumbo that has absolutely no significance to _anything_." I can feel myself beginning to seethe. "What are you, one of those creepy online role-players now?"

"Actually," he says, swiveling around in his chair to face me, "it has significance to everything."

My eyebrows draw together. "What are you talking about?"

Before he can respond, there's a knock on the door. Stiles flies up from his seat and flings it open. Scott's on the other side, a delightful grin plastered across his face. The kid has been all rainbows and gumdrops ever since he was given the position of first line yesterday and got a date to the party with Allison. It's cute how much he already adores her.

"Get in here," Stiles orders, and Scott obliges, plopping down on the bed next to me. "I've been up all night," the sheriff's son goes on. "Reading websites, books, all of this information."

Beside me, Scott chuckles at our hyperactive friend. "Is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?" he asks.

"What? No, no. They're questioning people still. Even Derek Hale."

At that very unbelievable news, my eyes widen to the size of saucers. "Derek? Why the hell are they questioning him?" I demand, growing increasingly upset over the fact that the guy I'm going on a date with in less than two hours is now a potential suspect of cutting a girl in freaking half. The poor guy lost his entire family, and now they're assuming he murdered a girl? Cut him some slack, for goodness sake.

Both my friends, for a moment, look at me strangely, most likely puzzled about why I would freak out about that when, according to them, I don't even know Derek Hale. "Woah, Lana," Scott says, "Why do you care so much?"

Fortunately, I don't end up having to answer that quite uncomfortable question because Stiles obnoxiously interrupts. "Guys, shut up! That's not the point I'm trying to make right now."

"What then?" Scott asks.

"Remember the joke from the other day?" Stiles questions, and then laughs humorlessly. "Not a joke anymore."

Scott and I share a confused look, in which Stiles sees and breaths out in exasperation. "The wolf? The bite in the woods?" We continue to stare at him blankly as Stiles ruffles around in his papers. "I started doing all of this research-do you guys even know why a wolf howls?"

"Should we?" I say.

"It howls because it's signal to make notice of his location to the rest of the pack," he explains, his excitement over this amplifying the more he goes on. "So if you heard a wolf howling that means others could have been nearby. Possibly even a whole pack of 'em."

Scott gapes. "A whole pack of wolves?"

"No..." Stiles purses his lips, pausing in what seems like hesitation. "Werewolves."

Shock vibrates through me, and while Scott stands up, clearly disbelieving, I stay seated as the realization of what Stiles is desperately trying to tell us hits me. Within seconds, the information Stiles made me read repeats itself in my head over and over again. Instantaneously stronger. Better senses. Impossibly fast and incredible reflexes. Ups and downs in moods. And with every fact, my mind instantly pieces it together with how Scott has been acting ever since he was bitten. His sudden and implausible capability to play lacrosse so amazingly well that it's hard to believe. When he could smell the mint gum in my pocket, and when he could hear Allison's phone ring all the way from outside of the school. I've even noticed how more of an edge he's been on lately, easily irritated; he's been more emotional than ever before.

Now that I think about it, Scott hasn't just become better at lacrosse; practically everything about him has changed.

"Oh my god," I breathe, getting to my feet to stand with them. "Scott… you're a werewolf."

Gaping incredulously at Stiles and I, while clearly aggravated with both of us, Scott grabs his book bag and throws it over his shoulder. "You believe this bullshit?" he snaps, his angry glare fixed on me, and I'm taken aback, immediately hushed. Scott never snaps at me; he's hardly ever even raised his voice at me before this. "I can't believe you're wasting my time with this, Stiles. You know I have to pick Allison up in an hour."

Just as he begins to walk toward the door, Stiles cuts in front of him. "I saw you on the field yesterday, Scott. What you did wasn't just amazing, it was impossible."

Scott frowns. "So I made a good shot."

"No! You made an incredible shot!" Getting frustrated, Stiles grabs his book bag and chucks onto his bed so he won't make a move to leave again. "I mean, the way you moved, your speed, your _reflexes. _People can't just suddenly do that overnight. And then there's the vision, and then senses. You don't even need your inhaler anymore—"

"Okay!" Scott hurriedly interjects. "I… I can't think about this right now! We'll talk tomorrow."

"_Tomorrow_? What? No! The full moon's tonight. Don't you get it?!"

I watch as Scott visibly becomes significantly more furious, and to be honest, it scares me a little. And that's wrong. I should not be scared of my best friend. "What are you trying to do?" he shouts at Stiles. "I-I just made first line, I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me! Everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?"

A flash of hurt blankets Stiles helpless expression, causing a new found anger to brew inside of me. "Stop yelling at him, Scott!" I throw my arms in the air in exasperation from his stubborn attitude. "He's only trying to help. Maybe you should be thinking about how serious this could be for you rather than one freaking date."

Scott stares at me with slightly labored breathing, and then he looks at Stiles when he quietly says, "You're cursed, Scott." Finally, I start to see some believing in Scott's eyes—very small and hardly noticeable, but it's there nonetheless. "And it's not only that the full moon will force you to change," Stiles goes on. "It's also when your blood lust will be at its peak."

"Blood lust?"

"Yeah, your urge to kill."

And then just like that, any sign of him starting to believe is gone. "I'm already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles."

Ignoring his sarcasm, Stiles grabs a book and proceeds to read about how change can be caused by anything that raises his pulse. "Alright! I've never seen anything raise your pulse like Allison does. You got to cancel this date." Pushing past him, Stiles begins rummaging around in Scott's book bag.

"What are you doing?" Scott asks.

Stiles pulls out his phone, already on the call screen. "I'm cancelling the date for you."

Suddenly, Scott's no longer calm; he bursts out, shouting in a voice so threatening that it almost doesn't sound like him, "_Give it to me_!" before grabbing Stiles by the collar of his shirt and roughly pinning him up against the wall with his fist raised.

"Scott!" I cry, and frantically struggle to get in between the two of him. Once I do, I angrily shove Scott away from the stunned boy behind me. "My god, look at yourself! You just threw your best friend up against a wall, and you think there's nothing going on with you?"

A thick silence clouds the room. Instead of continuing to be angry, or scream at me like I worried, Scott backs away from us, evidently ashamed and shaken by what he just did. "I'm sorry," he tells Stiles. "I, uh, gotta go get ready for that party." After grabbing his bag, he leaves the room, softly shutting the door behind him.

I turn around, eying Stiles worriedly. "Are you okay?" I ask, and I instinctively start to reach out my hands towards his face in an effort to comfort. But I stop myself when I remember that he'd probably be uncomfortable with such an intimate action between him and me, and I cross them across my chest, swallowing the lump in my throat that appears every time I'm reminded of m unrequired feelings.

"I'm fine," he sighs, and goes to sit on his computer chair. He props his elbows up on his knees and holds his face in his hands. After a stretch of silent moments, he looks up at me. "Please tell me you believe me, Lan. I need someone to believe me."

I bite my bottom lip. "I don't want to believe you, but I do." Running my fingers through my hair, I heave a heavy sigh. "Look, Stiles. I got to go. The party is in less than an hour and I have to get ready."

He unfolds from his distressed position to gaze at me in abrupt speculation. "_You're _going to Lydia's party?" he asks. "Why?"

Here we go again; another question that consequently leads me to only be able to answer by admitting my abnormal and quite rushed relationship with Derek. Hell, can I even call it a relationship? We're not dating, but we're defiantly not just friends either. There isn't really any title I could use to describe us, I guess. Last time I checked there isn't one word for two-strangers-who-had-sex-and-are-now-experimentin g-dating-with-each-other-after-only-three-days.

Part of me—actually, most of me—wants to lie and continue to hold back on telling him about Derek and me. But I know I'll have to tell him eventually, so might as well be now. "Uh, well. I'm actually going with someone," I say. "As a date."

"A date? With who?"

"Derek… Derek Hale."

Something comes over his face, an emotion that's so mixed with other emotions that I'm unable to place my finger on it. He gets to his feet and makes his way over to stand in front of me. "Are you insane?" he says. "Derek Hale? Out of anyone you could go on a date with, you choose him?"

Irritation bubbles inside of me. "What's so wrong with Derek? You don't even know him."

"And you do?"

"More than you!"

Like I pointed out before, it's not only rare of Scott to raise his voice at either of us; it's also even rarer for me to. Getting angry at the two of them is not normal. His face softens and he places his hands on my shoulders. His touch feels, considering how close we are to each other, unmistakably intimate. My stomach flutters. "I just don't want you getting hurt, Lan. Derek… I don't know there's something suspicious about him. He seems dangerous. I mean, we're talking about the guy who's a person of interest for the murder of a girl right now."

A smirk tugs at my lips. "I thought I was supposed to be the caring one, Stiles."

"I've always cared." His troubled frown smooths out into a small smile. "Especially about your safety."

In a state of mild shock from his unforeseen and uncommonly affectionate words, my amused smirk disappears and I'm only able to look up at him, a light blush rising to my cheeks. He doesn't seem to notice my timidity, or he does and doesn't act like it, and his eyes bore into mine. We stay in that position for a little while—and to be honest, I didn't really want to leave it. But then I remember my date, and I reluctantly step away from him.

"I'll see you at the party then?" I say, backing up towards the door.

He nods before going over to sit on his bed, his expression unreadable. I leave the room, my heart continuing to pound.

* * *

It's times like these when I wish I had at least one friend that's a girl rather than two knuckleheaded boys who know more about their own assholes than they do about good fashion. And now one of those knuckleheads is a raging werewolf who refuses to accept their fate and is most likely going to go completely haywire tonight. But, of course, that's beside the point.

Grudgingly, I stare in the full-length mirror that hangs on my bedroom door. A glowering girl glares back at me.

From the time I got back from Stiles's house till now, I've been preparing for my night. My hair, which I decided to straighten because curling is way too much work and takes way too much time, was done fairly quick, along with my makeup. Optimistic about how I looked thus far, I took a visit to my closet—and that's when my positive mood was tarnished.

There's absolutely _nothing _for me to wear. All I normally ever wear is dull cloths—like t-shirts, monotonous blouses, and jeans. In the past, I've never really gone on dates; therefore I've never needed many cute outfits. I hadn't realized until tonight that being without dresses or other girly crap like that is an awful idea.

I've tried on plenty of outfits, all of them eventually becoming a member of the reject pile on the floor next to my feet, and with every clothing pairing I dismiss, the more upset I become. Currently, I have on the best I've came across so far: a pair of regular skinny jeans with a floral blouse and a brown leather jacket thrown over it. Fortunately, I don't hate this combination; however I don't feel all that confident in it either.

I'm in the middle of debating giving a call to Scott's mom for help when my phone vibrates noisily on my dresser. Groaning in irritation, I hurry over to answer it. "Hello?"

"Hey."

My heart stops when Derek's deep, inviting voice drawls on the other end of the line and not some annoying telemarketer like I expected. "Derek?" I croak, and internally slap myself from sounding so inelegant.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh." I glance at myself in mirror again, frown disappointedly, but decide that it's not going to get any better than this, anyway. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready. Are you?"

"I'd say so." He pauses. "Since I'm pulling into your driveway as we speak."

"What?" I scamper over to my window and peak out to discover a sleek, black sports car of some sort (I'm not at all good with cars) parked, like he said, in my driveway. Suddenly starting to feel the nerves that are guaranteed when going on a first date with an unjustly hot guy who is assumingly far more experienced than I am, I quickly close the curtains and lean up against the wall, subconsciously biting the nails on my free hand.

I almost forget he's still on the phone with me until he says curiously, "Lana? Hey, you there?"

"Oh, yeah, I am. I'll be out in a second, okay?"

"Alright." The line goes dead.

Deliberately avoiding looking at myself in the mirror to prevent further insecurities, I grab my purse and silently run out of my room and down the stairs. Despite my dad being out at the bar right now, the instinct to be quiet so he won't hear me is still very difficult to break. Once I'm standing at the front door, I take a deep breath before pushing it open.

Stepping out onto the porch, my eyes immediately meet Derek's, who's now out of his car and is leaning against the passenger side. He's dressed almost exactly like he was a yesterday, in a gray shirt with a leather jacket and dark washed jeans. While I took one entire hour to make myself look far better than usual, he probably took maybe five minutes to look beyond sexy. I gulp down my nerves, repeating to myself: _It's just Derek. There's nothing to be nervous about._

Oh, but there is. Because right when that distractingly gorgeous grin stretches across his face as I begin to walk towards him, I trip.

Yeah. I fucking trip and fall flat on my face.

And as I lay scrambled on the concrete, I seriously consider suicide.

"Lana?" Derek's suddenly right by me, crouching down to help me up. He takes one of my hands and places his other on my side while I clumsily get to my feet again. I don't have to see myself to know how red my face undoubtedly must be. "Are you okay?"

Smiling through my embarrassment, I say, "I should be asking you the same thing. Watching me humiliate myself in front of you like that must have been very painful."

He chuckles. "Don't worry about it. It could have been worse."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"Well…" He thinks for a few moments, before laughing softly. "Actually, you're right. It couldn't get much worse than this."

I scoff and playfully slap him on the arm, in which he laughs again. "You're an ass," I say as we start towards his car.

"So I've heard."

He rushes in front of me and holds the passenger door open. The action seems way more gentlemen-y than I would expect from him, but nevertheless it's quite flattering. I mutter a thank you before I slide inside. Once he's in the driver's seat and the engine is revved, we head to the party.

* * *

Lydia's house is over flowering with loud and rambunctious teenagers. For someone like me, who is used to Stiles and Scott's birthday parties rather than a full-out, house party like this, it's intimidating. Derek, however, doesn't seem even the slight bit fazed. Although, as him and I make our way into the house, he does seem distracted, considering he continues to glance around as if he's searching for something.

"Derek," I say, and he looks down at me. "Are you okay?"

He takes a deep breath and smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

There's something about him that makes it impossible for me to be fully convinced with his claim of being okay, but I don't push him. The last thing I want to do is ruin this date, like I tend to ruin everything else. Then, I catch sight of all of the dancing teenagers outside, and I brighten up with an idea. Before he can resist, I grab his hand and begin pulling him towards the backyard patio.

"Lana, where are we going?" he asks, smirking in amusement as he allows me to pull him.

"Outside, obviously."

"Why?"

"We're going to dance, of course."

With that he quits moving, and unfortunately I'm no way strong enough to keep on pulling him without his assistance. "I don't dance," is his blunt reply.

"Oh, really?" I drape my arms over my chest. "You've never danced before?"

"No."

"Somehow that's very hard to believe." He doesn't make an attempt to give in. "Oh, come on, Derek. Loosen up!" Now that we're out where the music is blaring, feeling abnormally undaunted, I take a firm hold of both his hands and begin swaying to the smooth beat, grinning the entire time. Boldly, I place his hands on my continuously moving hips and arise on my tip-toes to whisper seductively into his ear. "From what I remember, you're pretty good when it comes to using your body."

Clearly my flirtatious actions persuade him, because before I know it he's dancing right along with me. The music that's playing is upbeat and neither of us bother actually _trying, _instead preferring to focus on the fun of it. Soon, I realize, considering his uncharacteristic and quite hilarious clumsiness when attempting to move along with the beat, that he really _cannot _dance.

I can't stop the laughter that bubbles from my lips when he does a ridiculous turn on his heels. "Well, maybe you were right," I chuckle. "You don't dance, and I'm starting to feel a lot less embarrassed about my fall the more I watch you."

Giggling at his appalled expression, I shrug my shoulders innocently. Catching me off guard, he grabs my sides and dips me, our faces not even centimeters apart, before he whips us up into a standing position. "Better?" he asks.

"Little bit," I say. "But you could still use some practice."

In the next moment, he's no longer smiling; he's pursing his lips and tightening his jaw as he stares at something behind me. Scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion, I follow his gaze and turn around. The object of his sudden change of visible mood is, to my surprise, Scott, who I now watch sprint away from an owl-eyed, seemingly distraught Allison. Worry sparks inside of me for my friend, and I promptly remember little, significant pieces of what Stiles had said to us earlier.

_Full moon… Cursed… forced transformation… blood lust… urge to kill…._

_Werewolf._

"Oh, no," I whisper, and whirl around to face Derek. "Derek, I—," I begin to say, but he interrupts me.

"Come on." He grasps my hand and it's his turn to pull me, although he uses way more force than I was capable of. Allison is gone now, too, presumably chasing after Scott. Derek leads me out to the front of the house where she is standing in the middle of the driveway, staring in bewilderment after Scott's car as it skids away.

"Allison!" I call, hurrying over to her with Derek right on my trail.

She turns around to face me. It breaks my heart how lost she looks. "Lana, hey," she says softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Did you…" Trailing off, she motions to where Scott disappeared.

"Don't worry about him," I hurriedly say to cover up for my friend. "He probably just remembered that he left the oven on or something." She gives me a weird, disbelieving look, and I shrug. "Scott's stupid," I add simply.

"Allison." Derek is suddenly by my side. "Would you like a ride home?"

She eyes him distrustfully. "And you are?"

"Derek. I'm a friend of Lana and Scott."

I glance over at him to send him a confused look, considering he's totally _not _anywhere near Scott's friend, at which he competently ignores, smiling in a friendly manner at Allison.

"Um…" Again, she looks at me. "Is he giving you a ride home, too?"

Sighing in disappointment with how evident it is that my date is over, I nod and say, "Looks that way."

With that, she agrees, certainly more comfortable with the idea of getting a ride home from a total stranger if I'm with her. Doesn't really make much sense to me, because if he was actually a psycho killer who was planning on using false information about having mutual friends with her only to lure us in his car, I highly doubt me being there along with her would stop him. It wouldn't just be her dying; I'd be me, too. But hey, whatever itches her scratch.

The car ride to Allison's house felt like torture. It was ten minutes of absolute insanity for me. The entire time, I couldn't stop thinking about Scott, wondering where he is, if he's okay and where in the world I'll be able to find him. Honestly, I would have ditched Derek and Allison to go find Stiles, who is bound to be looking for him right now, but I didn't have the heart to do that to Allison or Derek. Poor little Allison would be a freaked out mess if she had to ride with Derek all by herself, and I'm sure ditching him wouldn't be the highlight of Derek's night, either.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, we arrive at Allison's house, which, might I add, is freaking humongous. She bids us a shy goodbye before scurrying up into her house. Right when Derek zooms away, I turn to him, my panic for Scott at a new high. "Look, Derek. Could you drop me off somewhere else other than my house?" I ask.

He shoots me an uncertain look. "Why?"

"Well… I… I just need to check up on Scott, you know, the guy that ran from the party. I need to see why he ditched Allison like that."

"No."

Surprised, and quickly annoyed, by the fact that he just said _no_ to me (that don't fly well with me), and also by the fact that he said it so rudely, too. "Excuse me? Why the hell not?"

His fists tighten around the steering wheel. "I'm taking you home, Lana. You're not going to Scott's," he stubbornly finalizes.

"But... But…" Knowing that he isn't going to budge, a sit back in my seat with my arms crossed over my chest. "You know, I'm just going to find another way to Scott's once you drop me off. So for whatever stupid reason you don't want me being with my friend who I know needs me right now, there's really no way you can keep me away from him."

He lets out an exasperated sigh and then pulls over to the side of the road, right next to the trees of the forest. I'm about ask what he's doing when he twists in his seat so he's intensively staring me in the eyes and says, "You know, don't you?"

"Know what?"

"About Scott," he explains. "About him being a werewolf."

My eyes widen and my mouth runs dry. How does Derek know about that? _Why _would Derek know about that? For god's sake, I only just found out a few hours ago! I'm lost about how to respond, so I'll I'm able to do is shift my eyes away from his skittishly, feeling oh-so confused right along with my unbearable concern for Scott.

"Lana," he says, and his voice is so solemn and gentle at the same time that I feel the need to look at him again. "You have no idea what Scott's dealing with. He's completely blinded by animalistic instinct right now. He could hurt you."

"Scott would never hurt me," I say emphatically.

"Like this, he would."

Causing us to both look away from each other and toward the forest, a distinct, utterly ominous howl erupts from the trees, leading to goosebumps rising on my arms and shivers to travel up my spine. And as if it was Scott screaming manically on the tops of his lungs, I was sure that howl was coming from him.

I'm brought back into reality when Derek's door slams. My eyes snap over to see him now out of the car and starting toward the forest lines. "Derek!" I holler, and frantically scramble out of the car. "Derek, where are you going?"

He stops in his tracks and turns around to face me with a hard, unreadable expression. "Go home, Lana," he orders.

"But Scott—"

"I'll take care of him." He reaches into his jacket pocket and chucks me the keys. I clumsily catch them, all the while staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Without a word, he bolts into the forest. Within seconds, there's another howl cutting through the night air. This one isn't Scott, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand when I finally realize who it belongs to.

It's Derek.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the wait! Thanks for the support, once again.**

**And before we continue this, let's just take a moment to recollect on this night's episode.**

**OH. MY. GOD.**

Chapter Four  
Lana's P.O.V

After the very unsettling realization that now not only my best friend is a werewolf, but Derek is, too, I felt drained and tired. Derek's evidently a werewolf who defiantly seems way more in control and experienced than Scott, and I'm really not sure how to feel about it. How to feel about any of this, honestly. My life has always been surrounded by extreme normality; I have bad issues with my dad, two supporting best friends, a dead mother, and an under-determination when it comes to academics. It's never been fantastic, but my life is manageable, understandable. Unlike all of this inexplicable supernatural baggage that's suddenly a massive part of everything I do.

The night of the party, and the full moon, I hesitantly took Derek's car home like he ordered. But I didn't park it my driveway and instead left it a few feet away from my house; therefore my dad won't have any clue that I'm kind of sort of borrowing this super nice and expensive car. Immediately after, Stiles pulled up to my house and dragged me along on a search party for Scott which lasted the entire night until we finally found him the next morning walking along the edge of the forest shirtless and distraught. Being the love sick puppy he ridiculously is (pun-intended), he was most worried about Allison hating him for ditching her at the party when logically he should be worried about that fact that he's a freaking werewolf. But this is Scott we're talking about, who's as logical as a three-year-old.

I have a feeling Scott felt better about this eccentric situation when Stiles and I promised to help him through it no matter what. "Your strangeness has never scared me away before," I had said," so why would it now?" Because it was true. These two boys were practically my whole life; I'll always be there for them, even if Scott tries to turn me into a life-size chew toy.

Currently, I'm at another lacrosse practice. I'm sat on the lowest part of the bleachers, right next to the benches where Stiles and couple other adequate players are. Today my mind is far too jumbled to thoroughly pay attention to anything, including lacrosse. All I can think of us is how Scott could burst out in fury at any moment, how Allison's part of a family of fucking werewolf hunters who almost killed Scott during the full moon (could it get any worse?), and, of course, Derek is relentlessly floating around in my head.

Then to add on to my aggravation, Jackson decides to plop his annoying ass right next to me, a smug, arrogant smirk dancing across his lips. "Lana," he greets.

"Jackson," I grumble, continuing to look forward.

"So," he begins, "You're good friends with McCall."

"Yeah. So?"

"So… You two probably tell each other a lot of things that you wouldn't other people, right?"

I turn to face him with a glare. "What are you trying to get at, Jackson? Because I'm sure you're not here to have a conversation about my friendship with Scott."

"I want to know what he's been taking," he bluntly replies, seeming distastefully desperate.

Giving him a weird look, I think over what he means for a second before realizing. He thinks that Scott's on drugs because of his abrupt abilities in lacrosse. And by the intensely eager look in his eyes, I can tell he wants to take part in whatever drug it is for himself. Considering I know the truth, his notion about what's caused Scott to change is quite hilarious.

Not bothering to hold it back, laughter spills past my lips. His eager expressions twists into anger and he roughly grabs me by the shoulders, forcing me to shut up and look at him. "Tell me," he practically growls, his hands tightening around my arms painfully.

Appalled, I rip away from his grip just as Stiles stands up from the bench to face us when he notices Jackson's rude and intrusive behavior. "What the hell, Jackson?" he snaps indignantly. "What are you trying to do?"

"The bitch," he spats, getting to his feet too, "laughed at me!"

Anger boils inside of me, and I grit my teeth. "Honestly, Jackson, if you really need drugs that bad just to become nearly as good as Scott in lacrosse, maybe you aren't as cut out for this game as you think you are." He glares hostility at me before stomping toward the field when Finstock shouts for him to grab a long stick. Still annoyed, I decide to go sit next to Stiles on the player benches, his presence comforting and will hopefully settle my nerves.

"He is such a dick face," I grumble, crisscrossing my legs.

"Doesn't take a genius to figure that out," Stiles says, before taking a hold of one of my arms, gingerly expecting the skin where Jackson grabbed me. The imprints of his fingers are splotched on my upper arm. Wow, thanks a bunch Jackson the Jackass. Like I don't get enough freaking bruises from my dad already. "Does this hurt?" he asks worriedly.

"No, not really. I'm used to it." My breath hitches when I realize what I just let slip, but I quickly try to play it off when Stiles suspiciously raises his eyebrows, looking both surprised and on the verge of angry.

"You are? Why the hell would you be used to this?"

I give a fake, convincing snort. "Stiles, I was just joking," I lie, and then roll my eyes. "Has anyone ever said how gullible you are?"

"Yeah, you. All the time."

"Because I am your friend, Stilinski. Friends tell friends when they are frequently gullible."

"My god," he says sarcastically, "what in the world would I do without you?"

"Shrivel up and die." He shakes his head before diverting his eyes to the field, and relief floods through me now that he's forgotten about my stupid slip up. Come on, Lana. You have to be more careful than that. If that were to be Scott, he would have seen straight through my lies and I would have been in quite a mess. Sighing through my nose, I pay attention to the players.

Today, unlike the last practices, Scott starts out kind of rusty. But after Jackson shoves him down and Finstock does his usual asshole interrogation, something visibly noticeable changes in Scott—his stance is more tense; he practically radiates aggressive aggravation. From where I'm seated, I can't really see his expression, but something tells me that it's not good. Stiles nibbles on his nails nervously as Scott gets ready to face against Jackson again. I impulsively hop to my feet when Scott rams into Jackson ruthlessly, and when my friend drops to his hands and knees like he's in pain, Stiles and I race toward him while everyone else pays their attention to an obviously injured Jackson.

And to be honest, if the circumstances were different, I'd be reveling in the fact that Jackson finally got a taste of his own medicine.

"Scott," I say worriedly once we get to him and kneel down. His breathing is labored and heavy; his shoulders are tense and constricted. "Scott, what's happening?"

"I can't control it, guys. It's happening," he strains.

Panic washes over both Stiles and my expressions. "What?" Stiles snaps. "Here? _Now_?"

Scott begins to shake, and Stiles and I help him to his feet before we hurry him away from the field and toward the locker rooms. I fall behind a little and just as my friends scramble into the school, I'm stopped by a firm hand from going any further. Exasperated, I look up, ready to go off on whatever dipshit is in my way, but the words die on my lips and my jaw slacks when I see that it's Derek.

"Derek," I breathe in surprised confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching Scott almost ruin everything," he says angrily.

My troubled friend pops into my mind again. I try to make my way around Derek's large frame, but he continues to step into my way, refusing to let me move. "What the hell, Derek? I need to go help Scott!"

"No, you don't."

I scoff. "Excuse me?"

"You being near him when he's like this won't result in anything except you getting hurt," he says. "And it'd just make everything worse for him if he found out he was the one who did it. He needs solid constraint. Not a helpless girl who's trying to deal with a dangerous werewolf after knowing about them for not even a week yet."

"Well, aren't you just mister expert all of a sudden." I cross my arms over my chest. "And, as a matter of fact, I'm not helpless. I took self-defense lessons freshmen year."

He sighs. "I highly doubt in these lessons they taught you how to fight off a deadly werewolf."

"Scott would not hurt me," I tell him like I did the night of the party.

Frowning, he purses his lips. "You really need to stop thinking that."

"Don't tell me what I need and do not need," I say, irritated. "You're the one who only went to that party with me just so you can watch over Scott."

His hard expression falters a little and his eyebrows draw together. "Why do you think that?" he asks in confusion.

"Because I could tell you had your mind somewhere else rather than focusing on spending time with me, which is what you're supposed to do when on a date with someone." I came to this conclusion last night lying in bed and it genuinely brought me down. I'd really hoped Derek and I could have been something other than a one night stand. "It's fine. I get it. You're, like, the Yoda for all werewolves. Who else is going to watch out for them, right?"

He stares at me studiously for a little. Right when he opens his mouth to say something, loud noises sound from the direction of where Stiles and Scott had run. For some reason, Derek doesn't hold me back this time, and I sprint after my boys. "Scott, Stiles!" I call before making a sharp turn into the locker rooms. Stiles is standing with the fire extinguisher clutched to his chest; Scott is hunched over on a bench, sweaty and distraught. "What happened?" I demand.

"I'm wondering the same thing," says Scott.

"You tried to kill me," Stiles replies, sounding way too nonchalant considering the words that just came out of his mouth. He gets down on the ground in front of Scott. "Like I told you before, it's the anger, it's your pulse rising."

"It's a trigger," I add.

"But that's lacrosse," Scott replies somberly. "It's a pretty violent game, if you haven't noticed."

"Well, it's sure going to be a lot more violent if you end up killing someone on the field."

Stiles suddenly states, "You can't play Saturday, Scott. You're going to have to get out of the game."

"But I'm first line!"

After sharing a sad look with Stiles, I go over and place a comforting hand on Scott's shoulder as the sheriff's son says sympathetically, "Not anymore."

* * *

The deliberating I've been proceeding with ever since I borrowed Derek's car has been driving me crazy; I want more than anything just to work up the courage to drive it over to his house in the woods, but, considering my depressingly awkward social being, doing that is like plucking every one of my eyelashes out one by one. Confrontation about any sort with anyone is so hard for me, and it's another one of those times where I wish I was more like Lydia Martin. Normally, I wish to be like her so Stiles might actually have interest in me; however now I want her astounding capability to talk to every person she wants to about even the more intimate of subjects. I mean, for goodness sake, all I need to do is drive up, give him his keys, possibly utter a thank you, before running off like a scared little girl. Is that so difficult? Lydia could do that without even blinking. Except knowing her she wouldn't run off—she'd strut off.

If it weren't for the fact that I feel like a naïve teenage girl who actually believed she had a chance with this incredibly hot and more mature man, and who used her to get to her teen wolf best friend, then I'd probably have dropped of his car already. But every time I see or think of him all I feel is a cold sensation of humiliation run throughout my body.

Today, though, when I got home from school and saw his car parked alongside of the street, I decided it had to be done. And the more I delay, the worse it will be, particularly if he makes the decision to make an appearance at _my _house, then having my dad end up answering the door. That would be hell of a disaster.

"Calm the hell down, Lana," I murmur to myself once I pull up to the Hale residence. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."

Grudgingly getting out of the car, I quietly make my way up to the front door. Hesitant, I raise my arm, ready to knock; before I can, the door is being opened and Derek is standing right in front of me with a blank expression. "Oh," I say. "H-Hi, Derek."

He nods. "Lana."

An unsettling silence falls between us. I shift skittishly on my feet. "Well," I go on, swallowing uncomfortably, "I brought your car back, figured you'd be wondering about it by now." Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out his keys and hold them out for him. "Thank you, by the way."

He wordlessly looks at me for a few seconds without a changing expression or a sign of gratitude, before taking the keys from my dangling arm, of which falls to my side once my hand is empty. Both of us stand there for a while, no talking, eyes connected, and finally I turn on my heels and begin stalking away, all the while silently cursing myself for acting so stupid.

"Lana."

I stop when he says my name again, and I timidly face him. "Yeah, Derek?"

His jaw tightens, as if he's intensively considering something. "We should talk, you know. About—"

"_Derek_!" Both of us pay our immediate attention behind me when, totally unexpectedly, Scott comes riding on is bike over to us, clearly pissed off with Derek, by the way his face is beat red and he's glaring straight at him. He doesn't notice me at first, but when he does, he visibly softens. But I can tell he's still ticked off. "L-Lana? What are you doing here?"

Suddenly very conscious of the fact that I being here alone with Derek may presumably seem pretty suspicious to him—because I have a feeling he has no idea Derek and I barely even know each other—and since he continues to eye me in a very puzzled way, I consequently let out a nervous and quite unattractive snort. "Oh, um… Well, the night of the party, he let me borrow his car to go home because he was… uh…"

"Saving your ass," Derek harshly finishes for me, crossing over to stand in front of Scott and beside me, his arms draped over his chest.

I sigh. "Yeah, I guess that's a way to put it."

Scott turns angry all over again. I let out a short gasp when he grabs my arm and yanks me to his side, away from Derek. "Stay away from them! From Lana, from Allison. They have no part in this!" he shouts. "Allison doesn't even know anything!"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah? What if she does? You think your little buddy Stiles can Google werewolves and now you got all the answers, is that it? You don't get it yet, Scott, but I'm looking out for you. Think about what could happen; you're out on the field, the aggression takes over, and you _shift _in front of everyone." Clearly patronizing him, he picks up Scott's lacrosse stick which he had thrown to the ground with his backpack when he arrived. Derek shoves him in the chest with it, and Scott furiously swats it away. "Your mom is there, all your friends, and when they see you…" He effortlessly tears the net of the stick so it's completely ruined, causing Scott to become even more irritated. "Everything falls apart."

He throws the stick in the air, and while Scott looks up and catches it, Derek glimpses at me for a split second before he's gone.

With a set jaw, Scott turns to me. "What do you think you're doing being around him? He's dangerous, Lana!"

Not feeling like getting into this with him, I twist on my heels and begin to walk away. "Can we, like, not talk about this?" I suggest. "I'd greatly appreciate it."

He hurriedly catches up to me and stops me from taking another step. Lowering his voice, he says, "Listen, I can smell blood here. Human blood, right where there's something obviously buried over there." He jerks his thumb to an area beside the house, where a bunch of dirt has been dug up and then piled on top of the ground. "That cannot be a coincidence."

"What are you saying?"

"He's the one who killed that girl in the woods."

Taken aback, my mouth falls open in a gape, and then I shut it and purse my lips in a frown. "Scott, no—"

"You're really going to disagree? Could you at least consider it?"

I shake my head emphatically. "Derek's not a killer."

Frustrated, he throws his arms in the air. "How do you know that? Lana, you're acting like you know him as well you know me."

I let that sink in because I know he's right. Truly, I don't know Derek nearly enough, or really at all, to make valid assumptions about him. His life before I abruptly became a part of his life, before he and I shared the kind of intimacy I rather not remember, is completely unknown to me. For all I know, he could lure women into his house, young, vulnerable women, and murder them. Plotting to slash innocent girls in half.

Girls like me.

But there's something inside of me that refuses to let me believe that it's true. Derek can't be the murderer. He just can't be.

Scott notices my surely troubled expression and frowns. "Come on, Lana. Will you at least help me out? When did one guy become more important than our friendship?"

I give him an incredulously offended look. "How could you think that? Of course he's not more important than our friendship, but that does not mean I automatically agree with you." In exasperation, I rub my face and release a much needed deep breath. "Fine, Scott. I'll go along with it. God knows you won't let it go until I do anyway. But don't think this means I believe Derek's the killer, because I don't."

He gives me that Scotty smile that I adore so much, and I can't help but smile, too, despite the upsetting circumstances. "Thank you, Lana. You always pull through for me."

"Ah, what are friends for, right?" I say, and then climb on top of the back of his bike. "Now give me a ride to Chipotle, wolf boy. Mama's hungry."

* * *

**Next chapter will have more juice, I promise. Now please review guys! I need them to keep my motivated.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, guys! I really appreciate the favorites and follows! But it'd be really nice if you'd review, too! I need to know what you guys think of this thus far so I can continue! Nevertheless, thanks for reading! **

Chapter Five  
Lana's P.O.V

"Are you serious?" I ask Scott in disbelief. "You want to sneak into a morgue so you can sniff a dead body? If you get caught, your little werewolf ass is going to be kicked so hard by a very pissed off Mommy McCall, you know that right?"

Stiles, of course, had the brilliant idea that if Scott could match the scent he picked up at Derek's with the other half of the dead body, then they'd have even more of a reason to believe Derek's the killer. If the scent does match, they've already decided that we—despite my protests—are going to proceeding in digging where they are sure Derek buried the body. Needless to say, I'm not comfortable with anything that's happening right now.

"Yes, I know that," Scott says as we venture into the hospital. "But it's the only way to nail Derek with the murder."

Wrapping my arms around myself, I grumble, "I really don't like this."

"Chill out, Lan!" Stiles says with an optimistic ring to his voice. "This is one of the most exciting things to happen to us since, like, forever."

"If you think investigating the chance that Derek Hale, whom I went on a date with last week, cut in a girl in half is exciting to me, you're terribly wrong."

Scott nudges us and gestures to a door with a sign next to it which has directions to the morgue. "Oh, well," I begin as Scott hurries to slip through the door, "good luck, I guess?"

After he's gone, Stiles and I make our way over to a waiting area. To my dismay, Lydia, her perfect little self, is sitting in one of the chairs, and to my even severer dismay, Stiles gets the expression of utter admiration and nervousness that he gets every time he's around her. I watch with an aggravated glower as he blatantly deliberates with himself about talking to her. Poking my shoulder, he raises his arms in a what-should-I-do kind of gesture, as if I actually want a part in him trying to hit on the red-headed monster over there.

Giving in to his pleading, puppy dog-eyes, I say in evident annoyance, "Just go talk to her," before stalking over to the furthest chair from Lydia and plopping down on it. It'd be healthiest for me to look away as Stiles goes to talk to her, but, of course, I chose to torture myself and despondently observe the entire exchange.

"Hey, Lydia," Stiles begins, leaning up against the wall in front of her. "You, uh, probably don't remember me. I sit behind you… in biology."

Lydia's twirls her hair, completely unresponsive.

Stiles's nerves visibly heighten—and due to my care for him, I can't help but sympathize, despite the fact that he's currently hitting on another girl right in front of me. "Anyway… You know, I've always felt that you and I have had this sort of connection. Unspoken, of course." An awkward laughs escapes his lips. "Maybe it'd be cool to, uh, get to know each other?"

Lydia sighs, "Hey, hold on just a second." She flips her hair back and a Bluetooth is revealed to be attached to her ear. She looks at Stiles with a slightly bothered look. "Look, I didn't get anything you just said. Is it worth repeating?"

Stiles face falls. "Uh… no," he says, and then, with a frustrated expression, walks over and collapses into the chair next to me. I pat his hand and force a comforting smile, in which he sadly returns. Might as well be supportive for him about his hopelessly unrequired feelings for Lydia, even if I don't want to be, because I know exactly what he's going through.

The wait for Scott to finish his task isn't long at all. While Stiles hatefully watches Lydia and Jackson make out in the middle of the hospital, I stare at my phone where an empty text message is pulled up with Derek's contact attached. For the past ten minutes, I've been debating on texting him about what's happening. I'm afraid Scott's going to match the scent with what he smelled in Derek's yard, and considering my mind continuously refuses to let me believe he could possibly be the murderer, the urge to clue him in so he could hide out is overpowering. It's as if there's a whole different person controlling my actions and thoughts when it's concerning Derek, a person who cares about him way more than someone who just met him a week ago should.

But I keep on stopping myself, both of my best friend's faces flashing before my eyes. They'd be so upset if I secretly helped Derek, who they apparently believe is the ruler of all evil, and I absolutely despise the thought of them being angry with me more than anything.

"Guys." Both Stiles and I jump to our feet when we notice Scott standing in front of us. "The scent was the same," he tells us without any hesitation.

Immediately after the words leave his lips, my stomach drops, and I fall back onto the chair, my fingers clutching my hair in distress.

"Are you sure?" Stiles asks.

"Yes!"

"So he did bury the other half of the body on his property."

"And now we have proof that he killed the girl," Scott adds on.

"I say we use it."

They both look down at me and take in my afflicted position. Seeing how much this evidently upsets me, they're faces soften. "Lana," Scott goes on sadly, "I wish this didn't bother you so much."

"Why wouldn't it?" I say. "You just made it very possible that the first guy that actually showed interest in me is a killer who cuts girls in half. Sorry to break it to you, but finding that out isn't really the highlight of my day."

"Ah, come on, Lan! You really think he's going to be the only guy to show interest in you?" Stiles asks, and then gently pulls me up to stand with them. "You're the greatest girl I know. Any guy would be lucky to be with you."

_Any guy but you, right?_

I quickly cover up what must have been a very flustered expression my face and instead roll my eyes. On the inside, however, I'm soaring. "Can you guys do the whole digging part on your own? I'm not really in the mood to see a rotting, stinky dead body right now."

Scott, who's still discreetly smirking at me since he knows very well how Stiles compliments got to me, replies, "Sure. You'd probably just get in the way, anyway."

After roughly jabbing him in the ribs, we exit the hospital together. Once I'm home, I sneak inside, fortunately without being noticed by my dad, and trudge up the stairs, the whole time forcing myself to focus on anything or anyone other than Derek or Stiles.

* * *

The minute Scott texted me the next morning saying that they discovered the body, I bolted from my house, scrambled into my car, and sped straight to the ruined Hale house. When I arrived, three police cars were parked in front of the house and Scott was and Stiles was leaning against one of them, sending an abrupt sensation of aggravation boiling through me with how pleased they looked with themselves. Coming to a sudden stop, I kill the engine and hurriedly rush over to them. "You called the police on him?" I cry.

Scott looks at me like I grew a second head. "Uh, yeah. That was the plan."

"I thought the plan was just to find evidence. We don't know for sure that he killed her! For all we know, this could be a set up!"

We don't have time to argue any further when the front door of the house is opened and, my heart dropping to the bit of my stomach, Derek is led out in hand cuffs. I can feel the anger in my expression, and it no longer surprises me how upset I am about this. Whatever compels me to care so much about him, I've realized that I got to get used to it. Evidently, it's not going away any time soon.

Derek regards Scott with an indignant stare before he's shoved into the backseat of the police car. The deputy leaves temporarily and, despite knowing how stupid and rash this action is with policemen present, I'm too ticked off to care. Ignoring Stiles and Scott's protests once they understand what I'm doing, I quietly stalk over to the car and, after glancing around, climb into the front seat. My eyes connect with Derek's instantly.

"Lana," he says, "you shouldn't be in here."

I ignore him. "You didn't do it," I tell him unequivocally. "You didn't kill that girl, did you?"

His stare directed toward me doesn't falter. "Why does it matter to you?"

"Because… because…" A frustrated sigh breathes past my lips. "I don't know, Derek. Okay? I have absolutely no idea why I inexplicably care about your well-being so quickly after hardly knowing you at all. But I'm done trying to figure it out, for right now at least. Right now, all I want to figure out is how to prove your innocence."

Slight surprise flashes across his face before he turns expressionless once again. "You need to stop worrying about me when you truly should be worrying about Scott."

I cock my head, confused by his statement. "Why?"

"If he plays in that game tonight, he'll shift. Right in the middle of the field, surrounded by everyone he knows. You need to stop him from playing or else someone is going to get hurt, including you."

I don't have time to respond because I'm being dragged out of the front seat by the back of my shirt. Struggling, I twist around to find that it's Stiles who grabbed me. Once the chance is there, I tear away from his grasp and stand up straight, sending him a hard glare. "Next time, how about you warn me before you decide to forcefully man-handle me, okay?" I snap.

"Are you crazy? Do you have some sort of weird death wish to be sliced in half by Derek just like that girl was?"

"For the last time," I say slowly, "Derek is not the killer."

Scott's now standing next to Stiles. "Lana, we have proof. We found the body buried in his yard," he says, his tone on the verge of exasperation.

Huffing in annoyance, I brush my hair from my face and begin to stalk away toward my car. The sound of footsteps behind me indicates that they're right on my trail. "That doesn't mean anything," I grumble.

I hear Stiles scoff. "Okay, then what does? If God came down and told you himself?"

All of us stop walking once we're positioned at my car. I heave a heavy sigh and whisper, "I don't want talk about this anymore."

"We're just worried about you," says Scott. "That's all."

"I can take care of myself." _I have been my entire life._

"Are you so sure about that?"

_No, _is what I want to say, but I of course don't. I'm not going to have them think of me as weak like so many people believe I am. "Stiles, Scott," I begin with a small smile. "You two are my best friends. Part of being best friends is accepting each other. Can't you just accept that I don't agree with you guys?"

While Scott sighs heavily and mutters an "I guess," Stiles pouts cutely and crosses his arms across his chest. "Fine, we'll accept that. But could you maybe possibly stay away from Derek from now on?"

_No. I won't promise that, but I can make you think I will. _"How can I be around him if he's in jail, Stiles?"

Good answer, Lana. That way, you're not saying yes or no. Always answer with a rhetorical question, folks. It works beautifully.

* * *

Scott decided to be the unstable werewolf he is and bolt into the woods fully transformed and out of control all because Stiles idiotically decided to bring wolf's bane along with him in the car, the ultimate poison to werewolves. That's like having kryptonite around when you're hanging out with Superman. It's just a stupid idea.

Stiles and I, of course, ended up searching all over town for his furry ass, but, alas, we never found him. Very worried but optimistic, him and I gave up on trying to catch him when the sun began to go down and the lacrosse game was going to be starting in less than an hour. Holding on to the string of hope that he did nothing but sprint around like a floppy-eared puppy that forgot where he buried his bone.

Okay. I really gotta stop these dog jokes.

Stiles left me to go get ready for the game. Since we had been driving around in my car rather than his piece-of-crap jeep, which is only slightly less crappy, I dropped his hyperactive-self off at his house. Pulling out of his neighborhood, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. The caller ID reads that it's Allison.

"Hey, Allison," I say once I pick it up, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

"Lana, hey! Are you at the school?"

"Not yet. Why?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to sit with Lydia and I during the game." In the background, I distinctly hear a famine voice that can only be pinpointed as Lydia's say something along the lines of how she's ashamed of Allison associating herself with someone like me. Okay, maybe not along those lines. That's exactly what she said.

A smirk inches onto my face. Her resentment towards me is so sweet. "You sure Lydia's cool with that?"

"Oh, shush, Lydia," I hear Allison say quietly before speaking clearly into the phone again, "She's fine. Find us on the bleachers when you get here, okay?"

"Will do." The line goes dead.

Once at the school, I have the urge to go visit the locker rooms to check and see if Scott did show up after all, but I decide against it; there's a very high chance that I'd walk in on someone like Jackson changing. Yuck. That's a risk I am so not willing to take. Nothing is worth those inevitably scarring nightmares.

Instead, I stuff my freezing hands into my jacket pockets and jog toward the field.

Everyone is basically here already, even the teams. Stiles is on the bench with the rest of the players. When my gaze lands on Scott, relief washes over me. He sees me and sends a nervous smile, in which I respond by mouthing a "You'll be okay." I'm not sure if even I believe my reassurance, but all I expect to succeed in doing is calming him down some. Nothing is going to stop him from participating in this game, so I might as well cheer him on like I always have before.

After exchanging a knowing glance with Stiles, I scan the bleachers for Allison. She grins and waves me over when we catch each other's eyes. I start forward, but I pause for a second in surprise when I notice her dad sitting right next to her, also known as the crazy werewolf hunter who attempted and almost succeeding in killing my best friend. Taking a deep breath, I hurry over to them.

"Hey, Allison," I greet once I approach.

"Hey!" She motions from me to her dad. "Dad, this Lana. Other than Lydia, she's like the only girl here who's bothered making me feel welcome."

He smiles kindly, more kindly than I anticipated, and holds out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Lana," he says in a deep, quite intimidating voice.

Timidly shaking his hand, I nod and smile through pursed lips. "You, too, Mr. Argent."

"Please, call me Chris."

Chris. Huh. Not as villainy of a name as I thought it would be. Dr. Evil would have been much more appropriate.

When Lydia comes to sit with us, her arms full with a cheesy sign promoting her support for Jackson, I make sure to locate myself on the opposite side of Allison, which inconveniently happens to also be next to Dr. Evil. However I'd like to deal with as little of Lydia Martin as possible, so being pressed up against Daddy Argent (uncomfortably close) is my better, but still unsettling, option.

The game begins. And so does my unbreakable nervous habit of nail biting.

At first, it's not too bad. Scott doesn't show any warning signs; no yellow eyes, no growing claws, no convulsing in animalistic fury—all reasons to hope that he'll maybe be okay to play this game without shifting. But then all that hope shrivels up when Scott's just about to get the ball when Jackson rams into him, knocking him to the ground. While Scott gets to his feet, Jackson makes our first goal. The crowd goes wild. Allison and Lydia jump up from their seats, Lydia unsurprisingly more enthusiastic than the brunette, and then suddenly Lydia is grabbing her pro-Jackson sign. This wouldn't have been a problem if Lydia hadn't encouraged Allison to hold up the sign with her—and if Scott hadn't seen, evidently becoming jealous, which ineluctably causes his pulse to rise with anger.

"Oh, crap," I murmur, my stress level rising right along as I watch Scott become more and more agitated.

During halftime, Scott's abrupt change of attitude has become very apparent—to me, to Stiles, to everyone. I chew on the bottom of my lip and my foot taps hastily as Allison worries beside me. "Which one is Scott again?" Dr. Evil leans over and asks.

"Number eleven," I croak.

"Otherwise known as the one who hasn't caught a single ball this entire game," Lydia unnecessarily adds.

"I hope he's okay," Allison says.

"I hope we're okay," replies Lydia. "We need to win this." She gets to her feet with her trouble-making sign, only this time Allison doesn't instantly join her. When Lydia realizes this, she expectantly looks down at her friend. "Allison, little help here?"

Clearly not happy to do so, but is too nice to say no, Allison obliges. My heart begins to hammer harder with nerves as Scott just so happens to look over and see her with a Jackson-loving sign _again_. Right as the players get into position, a message from Stiles pops up on the screen of my phone. Having it at an angle where no one can read it other than me, I discreetly scan over to the virtual text.

_Don't just sit there. Do something about that sign_!

My eyes dart over to where Stiles is turned around on the bench and staring at me with a demanding expression. Frustrated, I quickly type a response.

_What the hell am I supposed to do?_

His reply is immediate.

_I don't know! But think of something or else Jackson's head is going to be chewed off by the end of the game._

_Would that really be such a bad thing?_

_Omg. Just do it._

Surprisingly, it doesn't take me long to come up with an idea and it's an idea that won't only ruin one of the main reasons Scott is becoming more and more infuriated, but will also give me chance to piss Lydia off. It's a win win situation, really.

"Hey, Lydia," I go on, standing up with them to smile bitter-sweetly at her. "Do you mind if I come and sit by you? I'm not getting that good of a view from here."

Allison gives me a weird look as Lydia eyes me with an unpleasant stare. "Whatever, Staffeld. I don't care what you do," she snips before focusing back to the field.

"Okay!"

I start to walk across them in order to be on the other side of Lydia. Then very theatrically, with a deliberately unconvincing wail (I'm enjoying my plan far more than I should be), I pretend to lose my balance. Frantically reaching for something so I don't tumble over, I grab onto the first thing I think of. The sign. While I successfully regain my balance, in the process Lydia's precious sign is completely ripped in half. I have to painfully bite my lip so I don't laugh as Lydia shrieks at her destroyed masterpiece.

"Staffeled! Look what you did!" she cries.

I fake a gasp and press my hand to my heart. "Oh my goodness gracious, Lydia, I am so sorry! Oh, I am such klutz! How embarrassing."

She glares at me with such resentment that I can't hold back the grin that threatens to stretch across my face. Pleased with myself, I plop myself back down next to Allison, ignoring the annoyed looks from the disturbed people around us. Allison, boosting my amusement, is blatantly repressing a smile.

In the next moment, I get another text from Stiles.

_Well done, my dear. Well done._

Is it wrong to be flattered by him calling me dear right now when we have totally different issue on hand? Probably.

The referee blows his whistle and the players disperse. My gaze is glued to Scott the entire time, completely unconcerned about the other team members. Suddenly, something changes in him; he moves with exceedingly impressive agility, catching the ball in ways no other player could imagine doing, dodging the opposing team effortlessly, and finally making a perfect shot into the goal. Like the rest of the crowd, I leap to my feet in excitement and cheers. By the benches, the Coach begins chanting, "Pass to McCall!" And they do.

My enthusiasm is short-lived because it's overpowered by anxiety of Scott's shift, which I've realized is now inevitable with how things are going. And by the way _the opposing team _just deliberately passed Scott the ball as if he was terrified not to, tells me that his change has already begun. Making another goal that ties the game, Scott rockets the ball straight through the goalies stick and into the goal. It's so impossible, but right now, no one cares about anything besides who is winning and who is losing. The only ones who are paying attention to all of these incredible moves Scott is pulling are Stiles and I.

It's at the end of the clock and Scott has the ball. He stops in the middle of the field, the opposing time all around him, as he jerks around with heavy breathing and shaky arms. Fear trickles through me and I press my fists against my mouth, utterly conflicted on what to do, on how to help him when I can't with so many witnesses around.

Beside me, Allison whispers, "You can do it, Scott." Immediately after, Scott swings his arms back and makes the winning goal just before the timer ends.

The whole crowd hollers and cheers with exhilaration from our very close win, everyone running from the bleachers to celebrate with our team. But all I'm able to do is slowly step down while worriedly watching Scott disappear in panic from the field. I catch sight of Allison chasing after him just as I make it down to where Stiles is hunched over on the benches. Him and share a distressed look. Then, noticing his dad on the phone with a troubled expression, we pay our attention to him for the time being.

"Dad," Stiles says, "What's going on?"

He holds up a finger as he listens to whatever is being said on the other line. "Okay, okay, I hear you. I'll head to the station after this. Yeah. Okay, bye." He hangs up and heaves a sigh.

"Mr. Stillinski, what happened?" I ask in concern.

"The medical examiner determined the killer of the girl to be animal," he tells us. "Looks like Derek Hale isn't the killer after all."

A gigantic sensation of relief hits me like a wave. For the sake of preventing the Sheriff's suspicion, I stop myself from smiling at the news that's seemingly only great for me and keep my expression placid as my eyes float over to Stiles, who's evidently both bewildered and upset with this sudden information. As he scrambles over to talk in hushed tones with his dad, I wait patiently until Stiles is back by my side and the Sheriff has walked away before bursting out the much needed, "I told you so!" while grinning widely.

Stiles groans. "Please don't rub it in," he pleads. "You know, gloating is so not attractive on a girl."

"I really don't care, because, once again, I was right." I poke his chest. "Just admit it."

"No."

"Ah, come on! Say it!"

He presses his lips in a fine line.

"Saaaaaay it."

"My gosh, fine! You were right. Now can we please go find Scott now and make sure he hasn't killed anyone?"

* * *

We discover Scott in the locker rooms. Not ripping someone's head off, not munching on any Scooby snacks, but making out with Allison in the shower area. Allison, smiling bashfully, mutters a goodbye to him before stalking away. "Oh, hey, Lana. Stiles," she says cheerfully once she spots us leaning against the lockers.

"Allison," I say with a sly smile as Stiles awkwardly waves.

Continuing to blush, she exits the locker rooms. My smug gaze fixes on Scott as he walks over to us with the dopiest and most love-sick grin that I've ever seen on him. "I see that you're feeling better," I kid.

"I kissed her," he states giddily.

"We saw."

"She kissed me."

"Saw that, too," Stiles says.

He shakes his head back and forth as if he can't believe what just happened. "I-I don't know how, but I controlled it. I pulled it back." He pauses. "Maybe I can do this, guys. Maybe it's not that bad."

Stiles, not wanting to ruin Scott's positive outlook right now, pats his chest and says, "We'll take later then."

He starts to walk away, but I quickly grab onto his shirt and pull him back. "No, Stiles. He's going to find out eventually. Might as well be now," I say.

"What?" Scott asks, confused.

With a reluctant sigh, Stiles goes on to explain, "The medical examiner looked at the other half of the body we found."

"And?"

"Well, I'll keep it simple. Medical examiner determines killer of girl to be animal not human. Derek's human not animal. Derek not killer and Derek let out of jail."

All joyfulness is drained from Scott's exterior and is replaced with bafflement. "Are you _kidding_?"

"No, and here's a bigger kick in the ass." I look up at Stiles quizzically, for I thought that was the only news. "My dad identified the dead girl, both halves." He pauses to cautiously glance at both of us. "Her name was Laura Hale."

"_Hale_?"

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Derek's sister."

Well, _that _was defiantly not what I was expecting.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please review, all!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to everyone that reviewed, liked, followed, and just plain read! It means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Six**  
Lana's P.O.V

The shrill blare of my alarm jolts me awake. Drowsily, I reach over, slap the snooze button, and grudgingly sit up, all the while yawning and rubbing the sleep away from my squinted eyes. I take a few moments to become alert with reality before crawling out of bed and heading toward the bathroom.

It takes me an impressively brief time of only thirty minutes to successfully (yet quite halfheartedly) prepare myself for the day. With my hair only partially straightened, my makeup somewhat applied, and my clothes thrown on, I make my way downstairs with the same reluctance and apprehension I feel any time I know I have no other choice but to face my dad.

He's slouched in one of the chairs with a mug of a coffee and the newspaper when I walk into the kitchen. "Morning, dad," I say as sweetly as possible, trying my best to prevent any anger in him from spiking.

His response is a grunt.

Wordlessly, I fix myself a bowl of Cheerios and sit down across from him at the table. The silence isn't uncomfortable; however it's not peaceful, either. It's just a thick silence that is much more preferred than him speaking, for whenever he talks to me it's usually to upset me. So when he sets down the newspaper and looks at me with a twisted smile, all of my hope for an uneventful and quiet morning flushes down the train.

"I heard you went on a date last weekend," he begins. "How was it?"

I keep my eyes on my breakfast. "It was fine," I respond softly.

"Only fine?"

"Uh-huh."

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "You know, you used to talk to your mom about these sorts of things all the time. You and she were so close."

Tears start to well up in my eyes. Like every time he brings up the topic of my mother, an inevitable pain coils in the pit of my stomach. In an attempt to distract myself, I idly stir my uneaten cereal around in the milk until it is too soggy to be appetizing anymore. Not that it matters; my appetite's gone now.

He relentlessly continues on, "I'll never understand why you killed her."

I grip the edge of the table with so much force that if I were to be stronger the wood would break in half. It takes every last drop of willpower to not start screaming in pure fury at him.

"She was so good to you, so loving. But you just had to go and ruin her, didn't you? Take away the good life she had."

I bite the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood seeps its way onto my tongue.

"The bond between you two was incredible. It was like she was your other half. Well, your better half is a better way to put it. Speaking of, I still don't understand where you got your looks from, because your mother was so pretty and I'm certainly not ugly. But you…" He laughs with a sick kind of humor, causing my blood to boil. "No wonder that date was only 'fine.'"

Not being able to stand it anymore, I get up from my chair and chuck the bowl into the sink before grabbing my bag off the floor. With tears now streaming down my face, I rush out the door, his emotionally agonizing taunts following me as I go. And once I'm in my car, the irrepressible sobs finally break loose.

Three years ago, I had called my mom and asked her to pick me up from Scott's house. It was late, around ten o'clock at night, but I was desperate to get home because I remembered last minute the fifty point science homework due the next day. In spite of her working all day long and already lying in bed, being the great mom she was, she willingly obliged.

Her car flipped on the way to get me.

The death of my mom was the absolute hardest thing I've ever gone through. Hell, I'm still going through it—the incessant ache in my heart that progressed the minute I found out about the accident, the grievous nightmares that haunt me every time I got to sleep at night, the agonizing guilt my father has pushed on me. Losing someone so close to you isn't something you eventually get over. It'll always be there, plaguing your life, refusing to let you return to a complete state of happiness.

She was my best friend, the most important person in my life, and she disappeared easier than I could have thought possible.

Before that night, our family of four was the definition of perfect. My beautiful and nurturing mother, my outgoing and optimistic father, my passionate and protective older brother, and me, a radiantly happy thirteen year old with no worries. If I were given the option, I wouldn't have changed a single thing about us.

Everything was different once she was gone.

My older brother changed drastically. While he used to hold a positive outlook for any situation or circumstance, he grew pessimistic and sullen, frequently spending days without ever saying a word and constantly being in a down mood. After he graduated from high school two years ago, he immediately left town without a moment of hesitation. At first he kept in touch, but as time went by, communication between him and I dwindled immensely. It's passed the point of me not even bothering to call anymore. Of course, I can't completely blame him, with dad being the way he suddenly became. However the pain of knowing that it was so easy for him to erase me from his life, when we were once practically inseparable, is unforgettable.

It's simple to say my dad turned out the worst from her death. After the trauma, his whole persona altered. My lovable, caring, playful dad transformed into a ruthless, pain-inflicting man who I can't even say I know. He focused all of his turmoil and angst onto me, ultimately blaming me for the death of my own mother. Initially, all the abuse was verbal; he'd continually spit reminders of her death in my face, wrongfully insult me about anything he could think of, say over and over again how I should be ashamed of who I am. How everything bad that has ever happened to this family is my fault. He's said many times before that the wrong person died that night. It should have me. Not her.

And a lot of the times, I can't help but agree with him.

Quickly it escalated into physical abuse, but by the point in time I wasn't too surprised. Anyway, the words are still worse. I'd take an hour full of kicks and bruises than a minute of his horribly cruel comments any day.

My mom's smiling face flashes before my glossy eyes, and I, suddenly feeling an upsurge of rage, swing my arm back and punch the steering wheel. Pain shoots through my knuckles but it doesn't bother me. Blinking through my tears, I shift the car into drive and speed off.

* * *

I pull into the parking lot of the school just as Allison does. Fortunately having control of myself now, I don't have to force cheerfulness when I meet her by her car. "Hey, Alli!" I greet with a smile.

She laughs. "Alli?"

"What?" I fake disappointment. "Do you not like it? I thought it fit you nicely."

Rolling her eyes, she begins walking alongside of me once I start toward the school. "Actually, I really don't. People used to constantly call me that when I was younger and ever since then I've hated it."

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble," I say, "but I don't think that nickname's going anywhere any time soon. Unless you want to defriend me, of course."

"Huh. I guess I'll have to think about doing that then."

We enter the school laughing. It's soon cut short when, being the spaz he is, Scott collides straight into her, causing all of her things to drop from her arms. Allison, after being momentarily frightened, smiles brightly at him. "You scared the hell out of me," she says while bending down to pick up her books.

I eye Scott with suspicion as he stares at her with an expression that can only be described as a little child finding their kitten after months of it being missing. "You're okay," he says as he begins to help her, speaking in a way that is seemingly to assure himself.

"Once my heart starts beating again, yeah." She looks up to notice his dazed look directed toward her. A light blush covers her pale cheeks. "What?" she asks shyly.

With that goofy smile of his, he replies, "I'm just happy to see you."

The principle comes onto the speakers and begins to say something about some mishap with one of the busses before unsurprisingly going on about how classes will proceed as usual. After, Allison smiles bashfully at Scott and bids both him and a goodbye. Stiles walks up to us just as she disappears down the hall.

"So," I begin, "What's this talk about a bus incident?"

They simultaneously look at me with the kind of expressions they always have when they're about to tell me something huge. Releasing a preparatory sigh, I motion for them to join me in a journey to my locker. "Go ahead, spill. You know, Scott. All of this sudden drama is becoming really overwhelming."

* * *

Scott is just finishing explaining his current dilemma when we enter chemistry class. He had very disturbing a dream where he brutally murdered Allison on a school bus (romantic, right?). Now he's panicking because, just like his nightmare, someone was similarly attacked on one of our buses last night. Said bus is parked outside of our school with blood splattered all over it, yet none of us know yet who the victim is yet. All we know is that, thankfully, it was not Allison. Scott, despite me comforting him, continues to fret that he's the attacker.

"That could have been anyone," I tell him for the last time as we take our seats. "I mean, coincidences happen all the time."

Stiles snorts. "Not freaking amazing coincidences like that, though."

I send him an exasperated look. "Not helping."

Shrugging innocently, he looks over to Scott who, refusing to let this go, says, "Maybe it was my blood on the door."

"It could have been animal blood. Maybe you caught a rabbit or something," Stiles suggests.

"And did _what_?"

"Ate it."

Scott's eyes widen. "_Raw_?"

"No, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven," Stiles remarks, being his usual sarcastic self. "I don't know! You're the one who can't remember anything."

"Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Harris bellows from where he's no longer facing the chalk board that has a bunch of totally confusing chemical equations scribbled on it but staring in annoyance at my two friends instead. "If that's your idea of a hushed whisper then you might want to pull the headphones out every once and a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?"

"No!"

He ignores him and directs them to two separate seats. Sighing, Stiles collects his books and, after saluting me, makes his way over to his new seat while Scott does the same. Smirking in amusement at this entire exchange, I salute him back before going back to not understanding chemistry.

Suddenly, interrupting the most _fascinating_ talk about something relating to the periodic table, some girl named Angela rushes over to the windows and yells out, "I think they found something!" Everyone gets up from our seats to join her.

Outside there's an ambulance and four men are hurrying a stretcher towards it, obviously holding an unconscious person. Beside me, I feel Scott's body tense and he mumbles to Stiles and I, "That's not a rabbit."

Causing everyone in the room to either scream or gasp, and my heart to practically jump out of my chest, the injured person on the stretcher abruptly flies up in a sitting position while a horrified scream rips past his throat. Immediately, my eyes shift over to Scott, who is backing up from the window with a look of anxiety. "Scott," I start, touching his arm. "Scott, don't freak out. He got up, that means he's not dead."

"Yeah, this is good," Stiles adds.

Tearing his fearful gaze away from the window, he glances at us. "Guys," he begins, "I did that."

* * *

We're not able to continue talking about the currently troubling situation until lunch, considering after Chemistry I don't have any classes with them except English. But I don't wait for them before going into the cafeteria and buying my food. What's most important to at the moment is, since this morning my breakfast went to a waste, feeding myself. My stomach has begun to itself I'm so freaking hungry.

Scott and Stiles find me with trays of their own while I'm heading toward our usual table. "Hey, douchebags," I greet them without faltering my step.

"Why didn't you wait for us by the math hallway staircase like I texted you about?" Stiles frets as we arrive at our destination. Already munching on my fries, I plop down at the table simultaneously with the two of them, Scott across from me and Stiles positioned to my left.

"Because you weren't the only thing on my mind for once, Stiles," I reply, making my remark sound sarcastic despite it having undeniable truth behind it. "You were temporarily replaced by the wondrous invention of these greasy and deliciously fattening French fries." To exaggerate my point, I stuff more in my mouth.

Stiles seems genuinely upset. "Damn you, fries. Damn you for stealing my spot."

"Don't curse at my babies!"

"Guys!" Scott interrupts us in clear frustration, causing both Stiles and I to dismiss our previous conversation and focus on our friend. "Can we please discuss the fact that I can't remember anything about me attacking an innocent guy last night?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Wait, since we did we decide that it was defiantly you?"

"We haven't yet," Stiles says. "Only Scott has."

"Look, that dream wasn't just a dream. Something happened last night and I can't remember what." A look of reluctance crosses Scott's face for a second. "And I'm pretty sure Derek is my best bet at finding out how to remember."

I'm suddenly far more intrigued in this conversation once Derek's mentioned. "You actually want Derek's help?" I ask, astonished. "Last time I checked you hated him."

"And what makes you so sure he has all the answers?" Stiles asks. By his blatantly irritated facial expression that promptly appeared when the subject switched to Derek, his dislike for Derek becomes even more certain to me. For some reason, Stiles, even more the Scott it seems, has really bad feelings when it comes to him.

"During the full moon, he wasn't changed; he was in total control," Scott explains. "While I was running out in the middle of the night attacking some totally innocent guy." Sighing tiredly, he runs his fingers through his curly hair. "l can't go out with Allison. I have to cancel."

"Oh no," I say, jabbing my finger at him. "You're not canceling a date with a great girl when we don't even have solid proof you did anything."

"Yeah, we'll figure it out," Stiles assures.

Suddenly the high-pitched, pretentious voice that's my equivalent to fingernails on a chalkboard is intervening in our conversation. "Figure what out?" Lydia asks as she casually takes a seat next to Scott.

The three of us share completely perplexed looks; mine is unsurprisingly more agitated than theirs (especially Stiles's), but nonetheless we're all confused as hell as to why Lydia Martin is sitting at our lunch table. Nervously, Scott replies to her noisy question, "Uh, homework."

"Y-yeah," Stiles agrees just as more people sit at our table, including ones I've never paid attention to in my life, Danny, one of the only popular people that I actually get along with, and Allison, who is the only one I expected to join us for lunch. I greet both Danny and Allison with a friendly yet puzzled smile while Stiles sinks lower in his chair, choosing to not say anything and proceed in stealing my fries instead.

And as the icing on the cake, Jackson waltzes over, ordering the strange guy next to Lydia to get up. After some mild protesting, the guy grudgingly obliges, allowing Jackson to take his spot. I never thought it'd see the day Jackson Whittemore sat at the same lunch table as me—and I sure wish it would have stayed that way.

Danny speaks up in the awkward silence, "So I heard they're saying it was some sort of animal attack. Probably a cougar?"

"I heard mountain lion," Jackson says ignorantly, in which I roll my eyes, about to enjoy correcting him on his dumbass mistake. But, to my annoyance, Lydia beats me the chase.

"A cougar is a mountain lion," she says as if were out of instinct. After Jackson gives her a weird look, she adds in a deliberately stupid tone of voice, "isn't it?" Lydia may be smarter than most of the student body, but she sure doesn't want anyone knowing it, preferring to me thought of as the stupid popular girl rather than someone who actually has a future in life.

Jackson doesn't notice her slip up and continues to be his usual asshole-y self. "Who cares? The guy's probably some homeless tweeker who's gonna die anyway."

"Way to be sensitive, Jackson," I remark sarcastically. "I'm sure he'd really appreciate your respect."

He glares at me for a second before Stiles holds out his phone for everyone to see, a video pulled up on the screen. "I think I just found out who it is," he says as he plays a clip from the news in which it explains that the victim is named Geris Myers and that he's in critical condition at the hospital.

Taking the phone to get a better look at the picture they showed of Geris, Scott says, "Wait, I know this guy. Back when I rode the bus, when I lived with my dad, he was the driver." Stiles and I look at him with slightly shocked expressions before hiding them from everyone around us.

"Can we talk about something more fun please?" Lydia says, and then turns to Allison and Scott expectantly. "Oh, where are we going tomorrow night?" Both Allison and he look at her in confusion. "You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow night, right?"

"Uh, we were thinking of what we were gonna do," Allison replies.

Lydia laughs. "Well, I am not sitting at home watching lacrosse videos again, so the four of us are hanging out, and we are doing something fun," she declares. I almost spit out my mouthful of water at the thought of Scott _hanging out _with Lydia and Jackson. It's both hilarious and terrifying at the same time—and, before this moment in time, I would have thought it'd be impossible.

Stiles and I watch in horror and amusement, with both our mouths full of fries almost the entire time, as our poor friend gets sucked into a night of bowling and _hanging out_ with Jackson the Jackass and Lydia the Red-Headed Monster rather than just Allison like he initially planned. And if it's even possible, considering how outrageously terrible it already has become, the situation gets worse; Scott totally lies his head off and says he's a great bowler straight to Jackson's face.

Scott, at the age of fourteen, was beaten by Stiles's six-year-old cousin in bowling. Just let that sink in.

* * *

After school I don't go home. My dad took the day off and I'd really like to postpone an inevitable worse version of the conflict that happened this morning as much as possible. So I go somewhere else, a place I should visit more often but don't due to the fact that I prefer to avoid going through the despondent feelings I'm bound to feel whenever I go.

I park my car on the side of the road, right next to the sign the reads _BEACON HILLS CEMETERY._

Even with me deliberately walking at a slow pace, I make it to my mother's grave in less than five minutes. We chose to bury her as close to the entrance as we were allowed, for the sake of us never having to worry about not finding her when we come; however I'm sure even if she was located at the completely opposite end of the graveyard, I'd still be able to find my way just as easily.

Her tombstone is shaded by a large willow tree. There's nothing super fancy about it; it's merely a generic tombstone.

_Helen Elizabeth Staffeld.  
1965 – 2008  
Loving Daughter, Wife, and Mother._

I sit down right in front of the tombstone and cross my legs. Sullenly, I rest my hands in my lap and, for who knows how long, I just stare.

Then the words flow from my lips as if she was sitting right in front of me. "Hey, mommy," I begin, my voice soft and strained. "I'm sorry I haven't been to see you in a while. A lot has been going on, if you haven't noticed… But that's not really an excuse; there will never be too much going on in my life that there's no time to visit you. So from now on, I'll really try my hardest to come here as much as possible, to talk to you, like I used to."

"So, how are you? I know you can't answer me, but I can still act like you can hear me, right? It's better than nothing. Well, I've been good, I guess. Going to school every day, dealing with Dad, going along with Stiles and Scott's stupid antics. I wish you could meet them; they've changed so much since the last time you saw them. Especially Scott, in ways that I can't really say out loud, but I'm sure if you've been watching over us then you're aware of all the unbelievable crap that's been occurring with him. Stuff that I'd really rather not be a part of, but I don't have a choice, after all. It's Scott, and how could I not be there for him?"

The reoccurring feeling of sobs building up in the bottom of my throat causes my voice to tremble and my breathing to become shallower.

"I went on my first date last weekend, with this guy I can't ever get out of my head. His name's Derek. He's not your regular guy. Quite the opposite, and ever since I met him, something has changed within me, something that causes me to want to know everything about him, to make sure nothing bad happens to him. He's… he's the first guy that's caught my attention since… since Stiles."

Tears start to slip down my cheeks.

"I miss you so much, mom," I whisper. "I miss being able to come home to you and tell you everything, vent to you about my ridiculous problems, cry for the stupidest reasons, and always have you comfort me no matter what. Yeah, I have Scott and Stiles, but it's not the same. I need my mom's advice, my mom's hugs, my mom's soothing back rubs and smiles. And I can never have any of that again, all because I was so desperate to finish that god-damn homework. Shit, I wish I would have just taken a zero and never asked you to come get me. You'd still be here with me." I choke on a sob. "And I'd still have my mom."

I don't bother repressing my soft sobs. It's a cemetery, for goodness sake—I'm allowed to cry. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and hide my face in my knees, my body shaking as the unfaltering tears soak my face.

Unmistakably, I sense an unexpected presence behind me. Suddenly alert, but fairly vulnerable and clumsy due to my current state of mind, I jump to my feet and whirl around. Stiles is standing there, with his hands shoved into his pockets, while staring at me with a heartbrokenly joyless expression on his face. My eyes widen when I realize that I had just been crying like a baby, apparently with him right there, and I begin to vigorously wipe the tears from my face while trying my best to get a hold of myself.

"Stiles," I say, my voice unfortunately sounding just as pitiful as I probably looked. "W-What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer, just continues to look at me. Then, catching me completely of guard, he steps up so we're not even inches apart before enveloping me in his arms. The embrace causes an immense wave of comfort to come over me, and I willingly hug him back, burying my face in his warm chest as my pathetic weeping continues. "Stiles," I say in the middle of my tears, moving my face to the side so only my cheek is pressed up against him. "I'm—"

"Don't," he interrupts, moving one of his hands up to stroke his fingers reassuringly through my hair. "It's alright. I'm here."

I don't think he understands how much those words truly mean to me.

* * *

**This chapter is very depressing, I know. But I wanted to get deeper into Lana's life, and also we were able to get some Lana/Stiles in there! Sadly, not really any Derek/Lana, but that will be in store for the next chapter, don't you worry.**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for the support everyone! Enjoy.**

Chapter Seven  
Lana's P.O.V

An abundance of crazy stuff has been happening lately. For examples, Scott becoming a werewolf, the whole gruesome bus incident, the discovery of half dead girls in the woods, and Derek and me, you know, becoming acquainted, to put our initial encounter in less descriptive words. Every one of those things takes a lot to get used to, to fully accept, however none of it has been horribly unanticipated or too surprising. Well, not compared to what's happening to me right now, that is.

Allison invited me over to her house so I could help her get ready for the catastrophe known as the bowling date. I was under the impression that it would only be her and I and no one else, so I happily agreed. But when I arrived and followed Allison up to her bedroom, there she was: Lydia perched on top of Allison's bed with a compact mirror in hand while spreading lip-gloss along her lips.

I wasn't that upset, considering I've had to deal with her several times in my life before now, so I decided to calmly go along with it for Allison's sake. For the most part, it was moving along fine. Both Lydia and I were acting civil while helping our doe-eyed friend pick out potential outfits for her date.

And then came the completely and utterly astounding words from Lydia's freshly glossed lips.

"Lana, I think we should be friends."

My mouth is _still_ hanging open and she said this at least five minutes ago.

She sighs impatiently and places her hands on her hips. "You know, a verbalized response would be nice," she snips.

Finally, I close my mouth; my previously bugged out eyes soften. "You," I begin, "want to be friends with me?"

"Yeah, why not?"

I continue to look at her like she randomly grew a giant and very hideous second head. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you've spent your entire life hating me?" I answer, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

She sighs and sits next to Allison on the bed, who is watching this exchange silently with an entertained smirk. Lydia crosses her legs and idly twirls a lock of her hair around one of her fingers. "I don't hate you, really. I've just never necessarily appreciated your existence," she says with an indifferent shrug.

My eyebrows scrunch together. "But isn't that like the same thing—"

"That's really not the point!" she interrupts, clearly becoming annoyed with how I'm responding to her totally unbelievable change of mind. "The point is that this rivalry between us is excessive, and really quite dumb. The whole thing is exhausting. I'm not even sure why we began disliking each other in the first place." She laughs softly. "Well, besides the fact that I'm totally popular and you're well… not."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks."

"Anyway," she goes on, "do you want to be my friend or not? Because it's not like it will affect me either way."

Pursing my lips, I drape my arms across my chest. The only thing that's holding me back from saying yes is Stiles, because let's face it; everything would be significantly easier if Lydia and I were at least okay with each other, even better if we were friends. I wouldn't be constantly irritated with her presence (only sometimes) and she wouldn't be with mine. Come to think of it, it'd be rather nice, especially with Allison to ease the tension if there be any in the future.

Yes, there's the whole Stiles being irrevocably in love with her thing, but I can get past that. And then again, if Stiles were to be with someone else, I'd rather like her than hate her like I have Lydia.

"Okay," I finally say with a small, hesitant smile. "Friends it is."

"Cool," she says with an infamous Lydia grin before jumping to her feet and going to Allison's closet. She proceeds to disapprove of practically all of her clothes, which I frankly don't quite understand considering most of them are cute, until ultimately settling with one of the cuter shirts. As Allison holds it up against herself and looks in the mirror, Daddy Argent waltzes unannounced into the room.

Allison looks at him in surprise. "Oh, dad… Hello?" she says.

He pauses before realization comes across his face. "Oh, sorry, I completely forgot to knock," he apologizes sincerely before nodding at Lydia and I. "Hello, ladies."

"Hi, Mr. Argent," we both say around the same time, me sounding noticeably less enthusiastic than her.

"Do you need something?" Allison asks him.

"I wanted to tell you to stay in tonight."

Her face falls. "What? But I'm going out with my friends."

"Not with some animal out there attacking people."

She begins to protest, but, to her evident exasperation, he cuts in an emphatic tone. "Hey, it's out of my hands. There's a curfew; no one is aloud out past 9:30 p.m." She frowns and looks away from him. With a small smile, he leaves the room.

"I'm really sorry, Alli," I tell her once he shuts her door, knowing how badly she wanted to hang out with Scott. "Dads will be dads, right?"

Lydia looks at Allison with an amused smirk. "Someone's daddy's little girl," she adds.

Allison glances at us, a glint in her eyes that tells me that she's up to something. "Sometimes, but not tonight," is her response to Lydia's insensitive and unnecessary comment. After glimpsing at her door to make sure her dads nowhere to be found, she makes her way over to the window and opens it. As she climbs out without reluctance, Lydia and I scurry over to duck our heads out, confused looks on our faces as we observe her unexpected change of actions. Before we can ask what she's doing, Allison flips effortlessly off the roof and lands with such grace on her feet. As Lydia gapes in bafflement, I grin, very impressed with my apparently skilled friend.

"Nice!" I say as quietly as possible with her still being able to hear.

"Eight years gymnastics," she explains briefly. "You guys coming?"

"Uh, I'll take the stairs," Lydia replies before leaving the room.

Completely up for this kind of excitement, I scramble out of the window. After taking a few deep, preparatory breaths, I jump off with a small shriek. Unlike Allison, I don't land on my feet like a graceful ballerina. No, my knees buckle under me and I collapse onto my face. I glare at Allison as she laughs at my expense.

"Shut your mouth, Argent. Play me a game in Scrabble and we'll see who's laughing then."

* * *

I left the Argent house in a positive mood, pleased with how everything went throughout the past few hours with Lydia and Allison. For once, after spending any length of time with Lydia, the result wasn't me consequently being agitated in some way, but actually high-spirited. Lydia was right; it feels good to have some hate lifted off of me, as if it were bricks weighing my some of my happiness down.

Macklemore is blaring on my radio and I'm energetically singing along to the upbeat music when my stomach growls, clenching in hunger. At that moment, a gas station catches my eye a few blocks up. I speed towards it.

After a very indecisive choice between picking either a Snickers bar or a bag of honey roasted peanuts, I opted with the peanuts (because who doesn't adore some good honey roasted peanuts). While exiting the Food Mart, in the middle of picking out the sweetest nuts in the bag, I spot Derek at one of the gas pumps filling up his tank. Instantly, the nervous butterflies that are always triggered whenever I'm around him flutter around like maniacs, and I resist the urge to punch myself in the stomach to get them to quit. Taking a deep breath, and, despite me hating girls who do this solely for boys, I quickly fix my hair and smooth down my shirt before making my way over to him.

"Derek?" His head snaps in my direction, and I smile. "Hey."

"Lana," he says, his tone light with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

I hold up the peanuts briefly. "Got a little hungry."

He nods expressionlessly and both of us stand there silent for a longer period of time than I prefer. Crossing my arms across my chest, I saunter over and lean up against his car. His eyes follow my movements until they're linked with mine while I stare up at him. "I never got to apologize on behalf of my stupid friends for getting you arrested," I say.

"It's not your fault," he responds with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "You're not the one who called the police, are you?"

"No, but still. I tend to take responsibility for their senseless decisions. You could say I'm kind of like their mother."

A small smirk inches on his face, causing a soft smile to come across mine as well.

Suddenly, two cars, seemingly out of nowhere, pull up unsettlingly close on either end of Derek's car. Eeriness curdles in the pit of my stomach when, to my complete surprise and speculation, Daddy Argent steps out of one of the cars, approaching us with a unfriendly expression. Derek tenses beside me and, after withdrawing the pump from his car, almost as if it was a protective instinct, sidesteps so he's partially in front of me and guarded from whatever threat Mr. Argent may be. If the circumstances were different and not so ominous, I would have taken the time to feel flattered by his caring action.

Mr. Argent's eyes flicker to me and shock makes a crack in his poker face momentarily before he turns placid once again. However, I can't help but notice that along with the shock there was also disappointment.

"Nice ride," Daddy Argent begins, stalking over so he's next to the windshield, his voice a false version of friendliness. "Black cars, though; they're very hard to keep clean. I would defiantly suggest a little more maintenance." He grabs the windshield cleaner that's conveniently next to the gas pump and starts to clean his windshield. "If you have something that's nice, you want to take care of it, right? Personally, I'm very protective of the things I love. That's something I learned from my family." He pauses his movements and looks to Derek. "You don't have much of that these days. Do you?"

My mouth opens slightly in both appall from his awfully heartless words. Saying such things to someone who lost their family in such a horrible and brutal way is just plain twisted. I don't care how much he may dislike Derek for what he is; no one deserves to be taunted like that.

I feel Derek become even more tense. After glancing up at his controlled yet rigid facial expression, I notice how the hand hanging nearest me is bawled up in a fist. Mr. Argent see's this, too, and I can tell it brings him satisfaction that he's getting to Derek. Feeling abruptly brave and angry, wanting to upset him like he is Derek as well as comfort the man beside me, I take Derek's fist into one of my hands, my thumb running along his skin reassuringly as I glare at Allison's father. The only thing on Derek that reacts to my unexpected touch is his hand unclenching and intertwining with mine.

Unfortunately, Mr. Argent doesn't look fazed; he's evidently good at keeping a straight face. "There you go," he goes on. "Now you can actually look through your windshield. Doesn't that make everything so much clearer?" There's a hidden threat behind his words.

He starts to walk away, and I'm very glad this whole thing is going to come to an end with nothing but cruel words being said, until Derek, deciding to be a smartass, says, "You forgot to check the oil."

Mr. Argent turns around, a smirk attached to his sane exterior, and he nods to the two men who are standing outside the other car. "Check the man's oil," he orders.

I can't help but falter my calm act by being startled with a quiet gasp when one of the men walk over and, with no hesitation at all, use a large gun to completely smash the passenger window of Derek's car. Derek keeps his cool, although once they're gone, anger peeks from behind his composed appearance. He lets go of my hand and starts toward the driver's side.

"Derek—," I start, but he cuts me off.

"Go home, Lana," he says rather harshly without looking at me before ducking into his car. Loudly starting his car, he drives off.

The slight hurt that comes over me from his grim attitude is annoying. I shouldn't be upset by his steely demeanor; that's how Derek Hale is. Holding his hand was stupid—yet another idiotic action made by me, foolishly forgetting that he should mean nothing to me.

And that I am nothing to him.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight  
Lana's P.O.V

So Derek apparently is not the one who bit Scott, but instead it was a different werewolf called the Alpha. He's immensely more dangerous than both Derek and Scott combined and the cause of the current deaths in Beacon Hills, as in Derek's sister and the bus driver, who later passed away in the hospital. Derek's been trying to track him down in order to end his killing spree, but he hasn't been successful. And what's even worse, the Alpha, ever since he bit Scott, has his mind set on Scott joining him.

All this very bad news was vented to me by Scott on the phone last night after he had quite an interesting run in with Derek at the Hale house. While I was secretly grateful that Derek wasn't a murderer or the one who bit Scott, I decided not to voice my opinion on that to my frantic friend. I'm sure he could go without being clued in on my strange feelings for Derek, considering neither him nor Stiles are fans of him still. Rather, I willingly sat on the phone for hours with him, listening and reassuring—the two things I do best.

It's the end of the school day (thank the Lord) and today I have to catch a ride with Stiles because my car decided to be an ass and not work correctly, so I have to wait until the mechanic fixes my already piece of shit car. Until then, I have the choice to either have Stiles be my chauffer in his crappy Jeep or ride on the back of Scott's bike.

Not a difficult decision.

I'm leaving my last period class and heading to my locker when I stop dead in my tracks, astonishment vibrating through me when I see Derek pinning Jackson against the lockers. Hurriedly, I rush over to them just as Derek lets him go. "Derek?" I say. "What are you doing here?"

The minute he looks over at me, I'm taken aback. He looks awful—and not ugly awful because I'm certain that is impossible for him—but rather everything about him right now practically screams that there's something horribly wrong with him. His skin is paler than usual, having a bluish-gray tint to it, as if not enough oxygen is getting to his blood. Dark bags are noticeable under his abnormally lusterless eyes and a few beads of sweat trickle down his face. His stance is shaky and clumsy, and his breathing is labored. Yet what's worst of all is the look in his eyes. The look of terror.

Worry streams through my veins for him, and I unthinkingly reach out to place my hand on his cheek. His skin is burning up. "Derek," I say again, but this time my voice is quiet and soft, "what happened to you?"

He stares down at me for a second, almost helplessly, before grabbing my arm and moving us away from Jackson, who I totally forgot was there. "I was shot," he bluntly explains, and the words send a shock of intense concern straight through me.

"Oh god," I breathe. "By what?"

"I'll explain later. But right now we have to find Scott."

I don't bother asking why he needs Scott due to the adamant and desperate look in his eyes. Instead, I gently take his hand and lead him out of the school. My eyes immediately scan for the teen wolf, but rather than finding him, I spot Stiles climbing into his jeep. Before I can say anything, Derek is no longer by my side and is heading towards him. Unhesitant, Derek stops right in front of the Jeep as Stiles was driving away, his arm out in front, and fortunately Stiles has enough time to hit the brakes before hitting him. I sprint over when Derek collapses the ground, kneeling down worriedly by him.

The cars behind Stiles begin to honk just as both he and Scott rush over to us. "What are you doing here?" Scott demands.

"I was shot," moans Derek. His eyes are now half closed and his voice is breathy and strained.

"Why aren't you healing?"

"I-I can't. It was… a different kind of bullet."

Stiles speaks up in excitement with this dramatic situation, "A silver bullet?"

Derek, even in his weak state, takes the energy to glare hostilely up at him. "No, you idiot," he practically growls.

Also kneeling down next to me, Scott's face lights up, as if he just now remembered something imperative. "Wait. That's what she meant when she said you had forty eight hours," Scott tells him. Both Derek and I look at him in confusion.

"What? Who said that?" Derek asks.

"The women who shot you."

Suddenly, Derek's eyes start flashing blue, all the while his pained expression getting worse. "Okay," I say. "We need to get him out of here." I gingerly help him up, Stiles reluctantly giving me a hand at balancing him on his feet, and the two of us together are able to get him into the passenger seat of Stiles's jeep. By now, people are starting to walk over, some either curious about what's happening or other's irritated with the hold up. I climb into the back as Stiles hops into the driver's seat and revs the engine.

"I need you to find what kind of bullet it was," Derek tells Scott who's leaning his head into the car window. "She's an Argent; she's with them."

"Why should I help you?" Scott asks.

Becoming frustrated with the fact that we're wasting time arguing when we could be finding help for Derek, I twist around and lean over Derek from the backseat, grabbing Scott by his collar, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "Listen to me, Scott. You're going to find that bullet, you hear me? You need Derek just as much as he needs you right now, so swallow your damn pride and help him, alright?"

Scott sighs heavily. "Fine. I'll try," he says.

As I straighten up in the back again, and after expressing his hate for Scott at the moment, Stiles accelerates out of the parking lot.

* * *

The car ride is sadly very awkward at first. Stiles continues to seethe, alternating from eyeing Derek with displeasure to glaring at the road before him. Derek, who is getting worse and worse by the minute, seems to not have capability of paying attention to anything other than his pain and exhaustion. Then there's me, wordlessly staring at the two guys (that I inconveniently both have feelings for in some way or another) in front of me while anxiously tapping my foot and biting my nails.

Stiles sighs in exasperation after he glances at his phone for the second time, and then looks over at Derek when he slips his jacket off. "Hey, try not to bleed out on my seats, okay?" he says without any hint of sympathy or concern. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" Derek breathes out.

"Your house."

"What?" Derek says, the slightest bit of alertness in his weak voice. "No, you can't take me there."

Stiles laughs in disbelief. "I can't take you to your own house?"

"Not while I can't protect myself."

Suddenly pulling over to the side of the road, Stiles jerks the car into park and, very suddenly and without any hesitation, faces Derek, frustration written all over his scowling face. "What happens if Scott doesn't find your little magic bullet? Hm? Are you dying?" he very bluntly and insensitively demands.

"Stiles!" I chide, but they both ignore me.

"Not yet," Derek replies. "I have a last resort."

And my friend's shouting continues. "What? What do you mean? What last resort?" Dismissing his questioning, Derek proceeds to pull back his sleeve to reveal an unbelievably nasty wound that just screams the need of medical attention. Of course, a doctor of any kind would only get in the way in this circumstance. While I poke my head around the two front seats from the back to worriedly examine his injury, Stiles groans in disgust. "Oh my god. What is that? Is that contagious? You know what, I think you should just get out," he says.

I send him an agitated glare. "Stiles, would you kindly shut the hell up for once? We're not kicking Derek out of the car when he's this hurt," I state emphatically.

He rolls his eyes. "Because, of course, you happen to care so much about his wellbeing, right?"

"Yeah, I do," I say, unashamed. "Now start the damn car, Stilinski."

For a brief second, he looks a little hurt by my unintentionally harsh tone—because let's be honest, he's beginning to annoy the hell out of me right now—and I can't help but be confused. Stiles normally never acts sincerely upset when I snap at him, considering him and bicker all the time, so why would he this time? I once flat out screamed at him and he merely rolled his eyes and lightened up the tension with one of his stupid jokes, clearly not fazed with me shouting. There's no reason he would be hurt now, when all I did was slightly raise my voice.

Stiles sighs and raises an eyebrow at me. "And where do expect me to take him, huh?" he asks. "You think your dad would mind us bringing a half-dead guy into your house?"

"You want him to kill me?" is my only half-kidding response, which of course they don't catch on to. I glance at Derek for a second, who, if it's possible, looks even sicker, before looking back at my friend. "I know this might sound like an inappropriate werewolf joke, but why don't we take him to the vet? You know, where Scott works. No one's bound to be there right now and maybe there will be some helpful tools."

They're both silent. Then Derek nods. "Go there," he says.

So we do.

The three of us are now on the brink of serious panic-mode as we saunter into the unoccupied operating room at the animal clinic. Well, at least I am, because Scott is taking an infuriatingly long time to get here with that damn bullet while Derek continues to_ literally_ get closer and closer to falling over and dying. Stiles just seems annoyed that he has to deal with all of this, and Derek ironically seems to be the calmest one out of all of us, but that may be because he's too weak to freak out.

And Derek now has his shirt off, leaving his totally mouth-watering abs right out in the open for me to gawk at. It's really not a good time to be admiring him in his shirtless glory; however I'm not exactly positive I can help myself, even with his horrifying injury leaking blood all over the floor and counter.

"Ya know," Stiles goes on, motioning to Derek's arm, his voice tiredly sarcastic, "that doesn't look like something a little Magnesia and a good night's sleep can't take care of."

Derek starts to rummage around in the draws and cabinets. "If the infection reaches my heart, then it'll kill me," he says, almost entirely out of breath now.

"Positivity just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"

I glower at him and then face Derek. "Derek, what can we do? There has to be something we can do to help," I say desperately.

He looks at me over his shoulder for a few moments, almost as if he's scrutinizing me for some reason, before grabbing something out of one of the draws. "If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time…. Last resort," he says with his back turned to us.

"Which is?" Stiles asks.

He turns to us, his eyes trained on Stiles, and holds up an electric saw as he says seven words that send a shot of horror straight through me, "You're going to cut off my arm."

My eyes widen to the point that it's possible that they'd fall out of their sockets. When Stiles, in a state of shock and disgust, reluctantly takes the saw from Derek who is now wrapping elastic around the top of his arm, I begin pacing the room, one of my hands tangled in my hair. "Come on. There has to be another way," I try. They both ignore me, so I march over so I'm right next to the injured werewolf and grab his good arm. "Derek," I croak, the panic inside of me heightening the more time goes by. "Derek, look at me."

He does, his eyes taking me in for a moment or two. "Lana, go into another room. I don't want you to see this," he orders.

"No!" I yell. "Derek you can't just cut your arm off!"

"If I don't, I'll die," he states, his tone so final that I know there's nothing that will change his mind about this other than Scott hurrying the hell up and getting here with the bullet. Ducking my head, I step back and hug my arms around my body.

"Look," Stiles goes on, staring in unease at the saw. "I-I don't think I can do this."

"Why not?" Derek snaps.

"Well, because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!"

Derek heaves in frustration. "You faint at the sight of blood?"

"No, but I might at the sight of a _chopped off arm_!"

Derek continues to glare at him. "Okay, how about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I cut off your head," he threatens, his voice menacing even with the unmistakable weakness weighing it down.

"God, I'm so not buying your threats anymore—," Stiles begins, but is interrupted by Derek roughly grabbing him by the collar and pulling him threateningly towards him. Stiles shrinks back in intimidation. Suddenly, Derek lets go of him and leans over the side of the table before puking up a thick, black liquid. Gasping, I hurriedly scramble back so it doesn't get on me and I can feel my stomach curdling in disgust, how I feel matching Stiles repulsed expression.

"What the hell is that?" Stiles cries.

"My body," Derek gasps out. "Trying to heal itself." He looks up at Stiles in urgency. "Now. You gotta do it now."

Stiles steps back, shaking his head, alternating between hesitating and refusing, until finally, the adrenaline from this eccentric situation fueling my decisions, I step up and grab the saw from the table. Swallowing hard, I say in a hard voice, "I'll do it."

"No—," Derek starts to protest, but is interrupted by him puking again. Breathing sharply, I shakily lower the saw onto his arm. Just as I'm about to turn it on, the best miracle that's ever happened to me actually happens.

"Stiles? Lana?" Scott calls before he rushes into the room. He looks at Derek's hunched over form, Stiles backed up against the wall, and me holding a saw to Derek's injured arm and says in astonishment to me, "What the hell are you doing?"

I let out a relived breath I hadn't known I was holding and drop the saw onto the table like it was lava in my hands. "Scott, I've never loved you so much before in my life," I tell him, holding my hand up to my head as the adrenaline subsides, but still keeps on pumping through my veins.

"Did you get it?" Derek grunts, and Scott hands him a tiny gold bullet out of his pocket in response. Slowly and unsteadily, Derek straightens up and holds the bullet up the light. He begins to say something, something incomprehensible, but he's not able to finish before he's collapsing the ground, the magic bullet slipping from his grip and rolling away.

"Derek!" I shriek as Scott hurriedly scrambles to save the bullet. Falling down on my knees next to Derek's inert body, I take his face in my hands. "Derek, come on. Wake up," I murmur, starting off with gently shaking him, but once he makes no movement whatsoever, I become much less careful and way more frantic and rough due to the worry for him increasing to an extreme high. "Oh, god," I choke out.

"Scott," Stiles calls, "What the hell are we going to do? He's not waking up!"

"I know!" Scott responds, still struggling to retrieve the bullet from under a cabinet. After what feels like forever, he excitedly hollers while jumping to his feet, "I got it!"

I look back down at Derek to find him still unconscious, and then I come up with an idea, which could either be really pointless and stupid or exactly right. After glancing reluctantly over at Stiles and Scott, who are momentarily distracted, my eyes lingering longer on Stiles, I lean down and smash my lips onto Derek's.

He's unresponsive at first, and I begin to hate on myself for this idea by truly idiotic after all, until I feel his lips move against mine. Soon, his eyes fly open just as I pull away. He stares at me with raised eyebrows and blinking eyes for a moment or two, before weakly shaking his head and scrambling to his feet. My face burning, I follow suit, subconsciously running my fingers along my lips.

I catch Stiles gawking at me, shock written all over his face, but he quickly looks away after we make eye contact.

In the next minute, Derek does the weird voodoo shit with the bullet contents, lighting it on fire like a brief firework as an odorless blue steam floats from it, and then violently pressing the contents into his wound. He begins to yell, a yell that can only be described as a pain-filled, agonizing scream, and he falls onto his back, the pain evidently too intense to deal with while standing up. The three of us are forced to watch him cry out until finally he quiets down and his wound magically heals right before our eyes.

"That was _awesome!_" Stiles breaks the silence. "Yes!"

Instinctively, I start towards Derek in order to comfort him, but I stop myself when I remember that my two friends who hate his guts are right there and that'd probably not be such a good idea, along with the fact that I'm not even sure he'd appreciate my comfort in the first place.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks.

"Except for the agonizing pain?" Derek responds, sarcastically bitter. His usual strong and steady tone of voice brings me a wave of relief.

"Okay, well we saved your life," Scott begins, "which means you're going to leave us alone. You got that? And if you don't, I'm going to go back to Allison's dad and tell him—"

I sigh heavily. "Scott, don't—," I start but I'm, like usual, interrupted.

"You're going to trust them?" Derek asks. "You actually think they'd help you?"

"Why not? They're a lot freaking nicer than you are!" Scott snaps.

Derek scoffs. "Oh, I can show you how nice they are."

The hidden meaning behind Derek's words brings a frown to all of our faces, especially Scott's, who then asks, "What do you mean?"

* * *

Derek took Scott somewhere to prove his point about the Argents. I could have tagged along, but I decided not to and go home like Stiles instead. It's already past ten o'clock and, if my dad happens to still be awake and I get home after curfew, I'm going to have my ass handed to me. And after tonight, I really don't feel like dealing with him; all I want to do is lie down in my bed and pass out until morning.

"So," I begin, attempting to get rid of the uncomfortable silence haunting the car, "Did I tell you Lydia and me are cool now?" Ever since we got into his Jeep and started toward our homes, Stiles has been utterly quiet. Normally, silence between him and me is no big deal; it's peaceful and relaxed. But right now there's something completely different about it, about him. Considering his set jaw, hard facial expression, and the absence of any communication whatsoever, I know that there's something bugging him.

He doesn't respond in any way.

"Yeah, it's like she suddenly forgot our entire rivalry for each other all together and was totally up for us being friends. Weird, right?" I continue on despite him not contributing in the conversation. I look over at him when he, once again, says not a thing, to find him with that same scowl plastered on his face as he stares forward at the road.

Breathing a sigh of exasperation, I twist in my seat so I'm facing the side of his head right on. "Stiles, what's up?" I demand. "Why aren't you talking to me?"

This time, he doesn't speak, but his hands grip the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles almost turning white.

Okay. Now I'm getting angry. "Stiles, stop being such a hard-ass and talk to me, would you?"

Abruptly, like had did earlier today when Derek was ticking him off, he swerves over to the side of the road and, to emphasize his evident indignation, roughly shoves the shift indicator into park and looks at me with the angriest look I've ever seen him direct towards me. "What the hell is going on with you and Derek?" he demands.

My eyebrows shoot up and I feel surprise take over any other emotion on my face. "What… What do you mean?" I ask. "Nothing's going on." This, frankly, is true, despite what has happened in the past with him and me. I may have inexplicable feelings for Derek that I can't decide if I'm okay with or not, but I'm sure he doesn't share them.

"Bullshit," he spats.

Frowning, I say sternly, "Stiles, I'm serious."

"If nothing is going on with you, then why the hell would you kiss him?"

I rub my hand across my face, growing more and more aggravated with him. "Why does it matter? I-I thought it would wake him up! I mean, it worked, didn't it?" Leaning back against the chair, I cross my arms across my chest and look down. "I don't know why you're freaking out so much about this."

He laughs that humorless, exasperated laugh that he does so often. "Because you're acting so unbelievably stupid! This little crush you have on Derek… I-It's pointless and meaningless! He probably doesn't even feel the same way, so stop wasting your time."

Not only do is words hurt, having the sensation of a knife being stabbed in the heart, but his harsh voice, his glaring face—it all makes me feel like complete shit. Because while his intentions are to downgrade my feelings for Derek, all I'm able to hear is him doing that to my feelings for him instead.

_He probably doesn't even feel the same way, so stop wasting your time. _

I know you don't feel the same way, Stiles. I know.

"Take me home," is all I say, in a hushed whisper, my eyes fixated away from him and on the window.

When he drops me off, I slowly make my way to my room, avoiding my dad who's passed out on the couch, before crawling into bed. As I curl up in the blankets, I don't let myself cry.

I'm way too tired of crying.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine  
Lana's P.O.V

It's now Sunday night. Ever since Friday, when all of the theatrics with Derek almost dying and Stiles and I getting into an unexpected, uncommon argument happened, I've been avoiding practically all human communication and most, if not all, association. Of course, the texts and phone calls from both Scott and Allison aren't even worth the energy to ignore, especially considering the fact that I'm not at all upset with either of them and they _obviously_ aren't able to spend a weekend without speaking to me (I'm only kind of kidding). But I've spoken to neither Derek nor Stiles. Derek is not too shocking, but not talking to Stiles for any time period longer than like 5 hours is absolutely unusual for our friendship, just like the fight we had. So a whole weekend, without a single phone call or text or even a message through Scott, is very out of place for me.

But what can I say? He pissed me off.

For tonight, since my dad will be most likely be at the bar until three a.m. like any other Sunday, I've decided to take part in one of my favorite solo activities. Rent a disgustingly love-sick romance movie from the video store and curl up on my couch with my huge comforter and a tub of vanilla bean ice cream. I know; it sounds very "single and lonely" of me. But frankly, I really don't care. I enjoy taking advantage of my singleness and loneliness once and a while.

I walk into the basically vacant video store looking like a total bum, with too-big sweatpants, a Beacon Hills Lacrosse shirt paired with a thin, black jacket, my hair thrown back in a lazy ponytail and my glasses perched on top of my nose. Heading straight for the romance section, I begin browsing around for the movies with the most unrealistic yet intriguing plots. And the ones with the hottest guys—that's an important factor, too.

I'm debating between _A Walk to Remember_ and _P.S. I Love You _when the welcoming bell on the door rings. Lifting my head, my eyes land on Jackson the Jackass as he makes his way into the store. I inwardly groan.

Great. The exact opposite of the perfect person to be around me right now. Just flipping fantastic.

I'm hoping I'll be able to go unnoticed by him by staying in the romance section; however, to my agitation, that section happens to be his destination. He smirks when he waltzes over. "Looking good, Staffeld. The homeless look defiantly suits you," he remarks, crossing his arms across his chest.

My glare eats away at his forehead. "Thanks, Jackson. Considering you're the one who modeled it so well in the first place, that means a lot coming from you," I retort with what is bound to be a bitchy smile.

His amused expression simmers down into a scowl before he proceeds to search through the romance movies. Trying my best to pretend like he's not there, which is profoundly difficult when the tension between him and me is quite awkward, I pick out _A Walk to Remember_ and start towards the check out. However, my pace slows when I realize for the first time that there's absolutely no one but Jackson and I around. No workers, no customers. Not another single soul. An involuntary shiver travels up my spine, and when my eyes catch sight of two feet sticking out from behind one of the movie shelves, a cold sensation of unease floods throughout my body.

In spite of the fact that Jackson and I despise each other, right now, as I stare in frozen apprehension at the unmoving feet, I say to him with a quiver to my voice, "Jackson? Come here."

Behind me, I hear him give an annoyed huff and the shuffling of his feet before he's right beside me. "What do you want—," he starts to snap, but his voice trails off. I tear my eyes away for a second to look up at him. His face, with his eyes now glued to the feet, which I've only ever seen express cockiness and condescending, has fallen in fear.

Both him and I stand there for a while, as still as statues. The lights, something else I hadn't happened to notice until now, are slightly flickering, adding onto the already ominous atmosphere. Finally, I work up the courage to take the first step. Jackson's not far behind. The first step may have been brave, but with each second I get closer and closer to exposing myself to what I already know is going to a horrid sight I'll never be able to erase from my memory, the steps become even braver.

I take the last, reluctant step. Jackson and I turn at the same time to see a dead body of a man, most likely the store clerk, with his entire throat brutally slashed, blood oozing from the wound, his eyes wide with dead horror. I do my best to the muffle my terrified screaming with my hand as I stumble backwards until my back collides with a latter. I tumble to the ground. When the latter collapses, the minor flickering lights begin to flash on and off far more severely, causing for me to only be able to see for the brief seconds the lights flash bright, as if a significant wire was torn when the latter fell.

"Lana!" I hear Jackson holler in hysteria. "Lana?!"

But I'm unable to muster a response as I lay scrambled on the ground; my widened eyes are locked with the horrifying, inhumane red ones that illuminate in the darkness. And when the lights brighten once again for a moment, the eyes are given a body. A giant, snarling, animistic body.

The Alpha.

This time, I can't hold back the ear-piercing shriek that rips past my throat.

Stiles's P.O.V

While I dig into the fast food bag to retrieve my delicious cheeseburger and curly fries that I've been wanting this entire freaking night, Dad looks over at me from where he's sitting in the driver's seat of his police car. With his mouth half full, he asks, "Did they forget my curly fries?"

"You're not supposed to eat fries, especially the curly ones," I tell him, reminding him of the fact that he has to watch what he eats for the sake of his blood pressure.

He scrunches his face up in annoyance. "I'm carrying a lethal weapon. If I want the curly fries, I will have the curly fries."

"If you think getting rid of contractions in all your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate, you are wrong!"

Like any normal instance between my dad and I, while he stares at me in exasperation, I end up smiling, frankly quite pleased with myself. Suddenly, his police radio speaker-mic goes off. Out of instinct, and pure fascination as my mouth overflows with curly fries, I go to grab it. He slaps my hand, sends me a glare, and after I sheepishly apologize, he responds to the call.

_I have a report of a possible 187_, a male voice says on the other end.

I perk up in excitement. "A murder?"

My dad quickly turns on his siren and hurries towards the place where the supposed murder had taken place. When we pull up the local video store, I first notice the abundance of ambulances and police cars with several medics and police sergeants surrounding a stretcher with a covered body laid upon it. Secondly, to my surprise, I see Lydia and Jackson standing by, Jackson seemingly pissed off (which is nothing new) as he talks to one of the medics. Finally, causing me to drop my food the floor of the car and my heart to completely stop, my eyes catch sight of Lana sitting on the back of one of the ambulances, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she tightly clutches it to her body.

All angry or upset thoughts about our previous argument vanish in that one second I see her, bandages taped across her cheek and bruises covering way too many parts of her body that are visible, fear painted all over her expression as she glances helplessly around. The fact that I was irritated with her feelings for Derek, the fact that I'm confused as hell in the first place _why _those feelings even bother me—all of that is instantaneously forgotten. Despite my dad's orders to stay in the car, I scramble out of the door and bolt towards her, my mind coursing with worried notions about what could have possibly happened to her.

"Lana!" I cry.

Her head snaps up in my direction. Relief washes across her expression. She gets to her feet just as I gingerly envelope her in my arms. "Stiles," she sighs, burying her face into my shoulder while she wraps her arms around my stomach. I feel wetness seep into my shirt. When I pull back to stare down at her, I see tears streaming from her big, terrified eyes as she gazes up at me, and I instantly have a burning rage for whatever caused her to cry.

"Lana," I say softly. "What happened?"

She shakes her head slowly. "Stiles," she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, "I saw it."

Confusion vibrates through me. "Who?"

"The Alpha," she chokes out. "I-I saw the Alpha."

We stare at each other for a long, silent moment. Wordlessly, I pull her back into my arms and clutch her almost protectively against me, wishing I could take her away from everything and anything that could ever possibly hurt her again.

Lana's P.O.V

Despite the expected action to take after you experience something traumatizing like I did, my decision is to go to school instead of staying home. Personally, I'd rather be surrounded by a bunch of distractions that are bound to get at least some of my mind off of the incident rather than lying in bed all day just to think about it, even if people are probably going to treat and stare at me as if I was the one who died last night. There's also the inevitable factor of my dad being more furious than he usually is with me if he found out I skipped school. And I'd prefer an entire lifetime of boring chemistry classes and gawking teenagers than the reoccurring wrath of my dad.

All eyes are trained on me the second I pull into the school parking lot and step out of my car. Pursing my lips, I breath in a deep gulp of air before raising my head and stalking into the school, doing my best to avoid the violating gazes of the my fellow students, who, currently, I want to bash their heads into a brick wall.

It doesn't take long for Scott to find me. "Lana!" he calls, skidding over to stand by me. "Hey," he says, and then pulls me in for a hug.

I embrace him back, taking in as much as comfort as possible from his hug, which is fortunately a lot. "Hey, Scotty," I say in the most optimistic tone I can muster; however my unbothered façade is pretty much crushed when my intended happy voice turns out sounding quiet and weak.

We withdraw away from each other. He looks me over with a concerned spark in his eyes, lingering the longest on the large bandage on my cheek and the bruises around my neck. I instantly regret not going with the idea of wearing a bag over my head today. He shakes his head, suddenly seeming angry. "I should have been there," he states.

"Scott," I sigh. "I'm fine. Don't go and blame yourself when none of this is your fault at all."

"Lana, you could have been—"

"Killed?" I finish for him as we start to walk forward. "Trust me; I'm aware. But guess what?" I spread my arms out and motion to my body. "I'm not dead. Besides some scratches and bruises and a solid month of nightmares, I am perfectly all right."

He stays silent for little, before, in a low voice, asking, "So you really saw it, didn't you?"

"With my own two eyes."

He scrutinizes me. "Lana, what happened exactly? You haven't told anyone the whole story other than the fact that the Alpha was there."

Biting the inside of my cheek, I frantically try and come up with an excuse to not tell him, but fortunately he spots Allison by her locker, who is struggling to force balloons back into her locker, and he's momentarily distracted by her like usual.

Unlike Scott, I know exactly what those balloons are for. Last night, after all the hoopla at the video store, I called Allison when she texted me wondering if I was okay or not. We talked for a while about the most pointless of things, including the fact that her seventeenth birthday is today and she likes to keep it a secret from most people (obviously Lydia found out, ergo the balloons in her locker). The only thing we didn't discuss was what happened just hours ago; I was more than thankful she hadn't asked about anything other than if I wanted to talk about it. My answer was no, and she kindly accepted that.

I let Scott go have his puppy-dog love time with her before heading towards class. Just as I'm about to duck into Chemistry, someone's hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me into a secluded corner. Anxiety starts to build up inside of me, images from last night instantaneously replaying inside of my mind, but the fear dies down when I see that it's not the horrifying Alpha who grabbed me, but Derek. Releasing a large breath of relief, I lean back against the wall. "You scared the hell out of me," I say, crossing my arms across my chest.

He doesn't say anything; all he does is continue to stare down at me. Slowly, and very deliberately, he reaches his hand out and gently, almost to the point where it's just hovering, places his palm against my injured cheek. Butterflies flap manically around in my stomach from his touch, and I instinctively lean into it. His thumb softly runs across the bandage before tracing the bruises around my neck. His eyebrows scrunching together, he murmurs so quietly that it seems to be only to himself, "Fingerprints…"

I gulp.

"Lana," he begins, his voice sounding uncharacteristically soft. He takes a step away from me and shoves his fists into his jacket pockets. "Wanna get out of here?"

He doesn't have to ask me twice.

**Ohhhh, wondering what happened to Lana at the video store? Guess you're going to have to find out in the next chapter! *evil laughter***


End file.
